The Longest Road II: The Long Road to Clarity
by Fiddler55
Summary: Steve comes face to face with the unpleasant consequences of Randy's plan as Mark and the gang search for him.
1. Rude Awakening

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks, Randy Wolfe, and Captain Newman do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All other characters and entities are wholly fictional and belong to me; and any chance resemblance to any living person or entity is purely accidental. I made 'em up.

He gradually became aware of a man's hoarse mumbling, the words slurred and indistinct. He wished vaguely that the poor, drunk bastard would shut up, or at least move on to panhandle someone else. "I can't help you," he tried to tell the other, but the words refused to form themselves in their proper shapes, making it sound to his dazed ears as if he was mumbling as well. "Shut up already!" he yelled suddenly, filled with an inexplicable rage. "No one cares about your damn problems, just go away, get out of here!"

The fog in his brain lifted slightly, just enough for him to realize that the babbling idiot bothering him was mimicking him, only less clearly, if that were humanly possible. A feeling of dread he couldn't explain started to inch its way through his body. He tried to move his hands -- either hand -- and noted absently that his arms didn't feel right; slowly, painstakingly, he located a thumb by willing it to wiggle until he became aware of movement against his chest. Encouraged, he ventured the rest of his left hand, determining that the fingers still moved, but meeting opposition when he tried to move it away from his body. What the hell is this, he wondered fuzzily, his mind as blurred as the voice he had heard. He decided to repeat the experiment with his right hand, with similar success and ultimate failure. The fact that he couldn't lift his arms, or even his hands, slowly registered on his dazed brain, but for the life of him he couldn't get his cognitive processes working well enough to figure out why.

In sudden panic, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and realized that his eyes were screwed tightly shut. Okay, let's open the eyes, he told himself furiously, I have to get a look at the idiot, ask him to help me. It took some determined effort, but he finally forced heavy eyelids open, only to blink in total bewilderment at his surroundings. He was in a small white room containing himself, a cot and a toilet. There was no inarticulate vagrant drooling over him or anywhere else in the room. The sense of unease rapidly magnifying, he focused downward towards his chest to look for his hands. After the resulting nausea passed, he tried again, this time succeeding, only to have it return as he realized the cause of his immobilization was a strait-jacket. His dread heightened, making it difficult for him to breathe. Somehow, he managed to push it away until the heaving in his chest subsided, although the hammering of his heart still matched the rhythm of the nasty little pangs of sharp pain in his ribcage. Where the hell is this place? he wondered, trying to keep the hovering panic in check. And what the hell am I doing here?

"You're in a special facility, and you're coming down from a dose of pentobarbital," an amused voice said, startling him. He didn't think he'd spoken out loud. The voice sounded vaguely familiar; not necessarily a well-known voice, but one he thought he'd heard recently. He lifted his head with some difficulty and looked around, irritated by the voice's bodilessness, and finally noticed a speaker grille in a wall. He licked dry lips and deliberately tried to speak. The same rough, slurred voice he had heard earlier -- the drunk's? -- crawled reluctantly out of his throat. "What --" Now that he was consciously trying to talk, it hurt like hell.

"Water usually helps," commented the voice unkindly. "Maybe, if you're good, someone will bring you some." It paused. "And maybe if you tell me where Miranda is, you'll get some."

Renewed panic flared through him. Who was Miranda, and why did he have the distinct feeling he should keep his mouth shut? But he was so thirsty -- "Who?" he managed to croak.

"Miranda," the disembodied voice said encouragingly, but unhelpfully.

"I don't -- understand," he managed finally, hoping the words sounded clearer than they felt.

There was a rustling noise, as of papers, from the speaker, and the voice muttered, "Jeez, how much did you guys give him? He shouldn't be this out of it still."

Another series of rustles, and the low-pitched murmur of another voice. The first anonymous speaker sounded irritated. "That shouldn't have been enough to turn him into a gibbering idiot. He should be babbling away like a girl with her first crush right now. Let me see the list of what you found on him."

The occupant of the small white room experienced a sudden terror. What did they mean by "gibbering idiot?" He felt so fuzzy, so groggy, but, somewhere in the recesses of his barbiturate-dulled mind, he knew it was only a drug reaction, there was nothing seriously wrong with him. Well -- he amended that estimate as he slowly recognized a dull ache in his right knee along with the sharper pains in the vicinity of his ribs. Come to think of it, his face felt stiff; he wished he could free a hand to explore, even though for some reason he had a sinking feeling it was going to develop into something else a lot more uncomfortable.

He jerked from his reverie, desperately and painfully trying to focus his senses, as the mystery voice spoke again. "Methadone," it said disgustedly. "Didn't anyone check to see if he'd taken any of these before shooting him full of pentobarbital?"

The other voice apparently replied in the negative. There was a short pause, while the dazed listener continued to fight his way upwards toward coherence, not making much progress. A discussion ensued outside. Finally, he heard the first voice state flatly, "All right. I'm going in there. But you're coming in and dealing with him at the first sign of trouble."

Oh, goody, he thought insanely. It does have a body, after all. I'm not going crazy. Yet.

The door opened, and a striking-looking brunette entered. She looked extremely annoyed. "We don't have time for this foolishness," she grated. She stepped closer to him and leaned down, pulling his chin up and then letting go. He felt his head loll downwards again. Hell of a thing when he couldn't summon up enough motor control to prevent that, he thought miserably. He attempted to focus on the woman. She looked vaguely familiar, but she was also pretty blurry. Hard to tell, she could be anyone once she decided to take on definite outlines. He half-smiled, thinking this was pretty funny.

His visitor wasn't amused. "Get in here and get him sitting on the cot so I don't have to keep leaning over," she ordered over her shoulder. "And you," she said silkily, turning back to him, "need to understand that, right now, your life and well-being are totally in my hands."

He blinked at her. They were nice hands. But not as nice as -- he shook his head muzzily as the thought skittered away from him like a playful kitten. Irritated, she slapped him across the face. "You need to come out of your little drug dream and start answering my questions. I have other things to do, and we're wasting time."

He stared at her in shock. What the hell was her problem? He wasn't sure he wanted to cooperate, assuming that he was even capable of being cooperative. He glowered at her and mumbled something indistinctly blasphemous. Then the door opened, and he looked up, his attention diverted.

The other voice belonged to a mountain with a beard. That couldn't be right, he puzzled. But the mountain moved toward him on what looked like tree trunks, picked him easily up off the floor in equally sizeable arms, and flung him onto the cot with a force that made his teeth snap together. Something in the vicinity of his chest sent up a jagged yowling as the ends of his broken ribs grated against each other. He winced with pain, drawing the woman's attention. "Hmmm. He felt something just now; meds must be wearing off some." She jerked her head at the mountain. "Ribs or knee. Either one. Not too hard -- I want him awake."

As he stared at her in mounting horror, digesting her command, he saw the mountain nod its -- head? -- and one of those tree trunks began an inexorable arc, to slam agonizingly against his body. "Just a small tap," the mountain rumbled.

Small tap? the man convulsing in pain on the cot thought in disbelief, desperately trying to decide whether he would be better off passing out or fighting to stay awake, and which alternative would ultimately be less unpleasant.

"You don't want him to do that again, do you?" queried the woman, casually. He managed to summon the strength to shake his head, hoping she understood he meant no. The woman laughed. "Most don't." She reached over and took his head in her hands, noting idly the depths of the bewildered blue eyes blinking at her. "Now, listen to me very carefully. I will ask you some questions. You will give me the answers."

He stared at her resentfully. What the hell did she think he was, stupid? Of course, he realized, with some confusion, he wasn't sure if that meant stupid as in unable to understand, or stupid as in why would he possibly tell her anything. He wished with a trace of despair that they would just leave him alone until he could regain his senses more fully, had a better chance of figuring out just what the blazes was going on.

"And," she continued, apparently unaware of his silent dilemma, "if you give me the right answers, we'll make you a lot more comfortable. If you don't --" she shrugged in the direction of the mountain.

Abruptly bored with the cheap melodramatics, and still much too foggy from the drugs to think rationally, let alone sensibly, he turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut. She hadn't started out with a body. Maybe, if he concentrated on not hearing her as well as not seeing her, she'd disappear back into whatever noxious pit from whence she came.

Wrong move. Despite his efforts, he heard her speak, and barely had time to resign himself to the inevitability of it when the mountain fell on him again.

Someone was slapping him, but not hard. "Where's Miranda?" the bothersome woman demanded.

The object of her attention shook his head. "Who's Miranda?" he forced through lips which still didn't seem to recognize consonants. "Pretty name," he managed, then, pleased by his success, he asked happily, "Is she pretty too?" He had just enough time to congratulate himself on forming a coherent question when the mountain came back.

He'd had enough of this. What the hell was her problem anyway? He thought he'd been doing admirably to enunciate that much. "Quit," he slurred. "'M trying best I can." To her credit, she managed to comprehend the garble posing as semi-coherent English. She held up a hand to stop the mountain, which had ominously drawn near again. "I think he may be coming down enough to answer questions now."

She turned back to him. He grinned at her inanely. "Okay," she said soothingly. "Where's Miranda?"

His eyes clouded, and the grin faded. "Don't unnerstand," he sulked. "Don't know -- 'Randa." But even as he mumbled the name, an alarm tocsin started to ring faintly in his brain. Something was very, very wrong.

Tanya Solario made an exasperated sound. "He's drifting off again," she observed with irritation. She pressed the intercom, asked for a number, then snapped, "Hey! How much pentobarbital did he get, anyway?" Something crackled through the speaker. She looked dubiously at the man on the cot. "That shouldn't have been enough, even with the narcotic, especially since he got it on the flight up."

The speaker buzzed again, and Solario's face reddened. "On arrival? My God, you idiots, he'd already had 100 mg -- how much?" She listened, shaking her head in annoyance. "Another 100. No wonder." She dismissed the unseen speaker and turned back to her involuntary guest. He had been watching her cautiously, unconsciously bracing himself for the imminent explosion and another encounter with the mountain. Unbelievably, she seemed to regain control of herself and smiled at him, not unkindly.

"Well, that explains why you're so groggy. They gave you too much by mistake." She patted his shoulder in what apparently was supposed to be a reassuring fashion, ignoring his reflexive shrinking away from her touch. "Now. Let's try this again, okay?"

He regarded her warily, unwilling to commit himself. She touched his cheek, her fingers cold as ice. "Where is Miranda?"

Why did she keep harping on this Miranda person? he wondered savagely. She was obsessed. Obsessed. Now there, he mused, his mind starting once more to wander, was a cool word. Obsessed. He said it aloud, wrapping his tongue around the esses with relish until he became hopelessly ensnarled in them, his voice trailing off in confusion. Fury sparked in her eyes, and he winced away from her hand, but not quickly enough. This time, it was her fist against a cheekbone which he immediately discovered had been targeted at some previous point. "Stop it," he grumbled, shaking his head to see if his eyes could focus more easily that way.

"Where is Miranda?" she repeated.

Sullenly, he turned his head away again. "Don't know," he mumbled. "Wouldn't tell you if I did. Bitch." He slid a look sideways at her from under his lashes. "Go 'way. Lemme alone."

Stung by his response, she started to react, then closed her mouth slowly and let her hand drop, regarding him steadily for a minute. "Alone?" she questioned, a touch of menace in her tone. "You want to be left alone?"

He looked at her dubiously, wondering why that word, which sounded so enticing a moment ago, suddenly had lost its appeal. Even in his less than lucid state, it was obvious that the wrong answer had the potential to produce extremely unpleasant consequences. She deliberately pretended to mistake his silence for agreement. "All right," she said briskly, "here's what we'll do. We'll give you some more medicine, and then we'll leave you alone."

His perception was not capable yet of distinguishing clearly between truth and lies. He only knew he didn't want any more pento-whatsit. Hating it, half afraid he had made the wrong choice anyway, he shook his head.

She smiled triumphantly. She had him, and they both knew it. Then -- "Where's Miranda?"

Oh, God. There was no way he could get this question right, whether he wanted to cooperate or not. Why couldn't this woman get with the program? Quietly, patiently, despite his screaming nerves, concentrating as hard as he could on speaking as clearly as possible, he whispered, "I don't know. I don't know who Miranda is. I don't know where she is. I just don't know." He hunched his shoulders, steeling himself against the pain he knew was coming.

There was a silence. Tanya Solario eyed the man who had put her in jail for five long years pensively, debating whether to retaliate just on general principles. The only sound was the harsh rasping of his breathing, as he tried to inhale and exhale without causing the abused ribs more discomfort. He didn't think it was working. She watched in fascination as his face tightened with pain and his determination to keep it from becoming too noticeable. Noting his struggle, she laughed out loud, relishing her revenge.

There was a metallic clanking of keys outside. The door opened, and Aubrey Wyler strode in. "Anything?"

Solario shook her head. "Not really. Can't tell if he's truly got a high pain threshold or if it's just the drugs, considering some overeager beaver tried to overdose him."

Wyler's eyes narrowed as he moved closer to the cot, registering the harsh, uneven breathing. "I thought I gave express orders not to break anything," he complained.

She shrugged. "Blame your boys back at the Ranch. They were broken before he even got here."

"Morgan's not going to be pleased," Wyler replied. "He doesn't like broken bones interfering with his experiments. Sloan's going to have to heal some before they can start." He deliberately spoke loudly enough for the words to be clearly audible to their guest, waiting for a reaction.

He was disappointed. The man in the strait-jacket was zoning truly and definitively; the blue eyes had dulled, and he had lost himself in some other world. Wyler stared down at him disdainfully. "This won't do. We need answers. Before I start tearing down my organization, I intend to know for sure what he knows!" He motioned to the mountain. "Wake him up."

Life was truly strange, he thought. How could he stand up without moving his arms or legs? It was almost like flying, he noted whimsically, except something wasn't quite right. He shouldn't be able to hang in mid-air without flapping his arms or something. A voice which woke a quick memory of fear and pain spoke. "Drop him."

The flying lesson ended abruptly. He realized, with somewhat greater clarity of vision than he had experienced earlier, that he was not quite face down on the floor, gazing in awe at the biggest shoe he had ever seen. "Bigfoot!" he gurgled, and started to laugh until his ribs stopped him violently. He choked, coughed, and choked again as a massive paw picked him up more or less by the scruff of the neck and stood him upright, where he watched his own unsteady feet with fascination. A strange hand swam into his line of sight. It wasn't as pretty as the woman's or as huge as the mountain's. For some reason, though, its vague familiarity made him extremely uncomfortable, and the memory of pain and fear inexplicably returned.

His fears were confirmed when Wyler spoke. "Lieutenant. You have some information I need." He winced as the rich baritone vibrated through his aching head, which hurt even more when he shook it no without thinking. "Where is your wife, Lieutenant? Where is Miranda?" Wyler pressed.

Wife? His eyes widened as he tried to assimilate this latest information. Was that who this mysterious Miranda was? His wife? Delighted at finding some clue to at least a portion of the mystery, he started to speak, only to close his mouth, panic-stricken, when he realized he still didn't know who they were talking about. Wyler misunderstood his confusion for recalcitrance. "One would think you'd had enough of playing games," he warned, somehow signaling the mountain.

He doubled over, coughing helplessly, from the gut punch he didn't sense coming. "I don't -- know," he gasped, willing himself to breathe. "Who the hell is Miranda?" Astonished by his ability to produce a more or less coherent utterance, he drew as deep a breath as his reviled ribs would allow and shouted, "I don't know! And I don't understand what you want! So can the crap about this Miranda!"

Oops. In his sudden rage, he had temporarily forgotten he was at somewhat of a disadvantage; drugged, battered and restrained, and he thought he was going to do -- what. Reality descended with the suddenness of the cruel smile, more a grimace really, which spread across Wyler's face and was mirrored on Solario's. "I think he's coming down now," she gloated.

"I believe you're right," Wyler agreed, still wearing the death's head grin. He nodded at the mountain. "Help our friend stand up better, won't you?"

He shook his head fretfully. Didn't the idiot think he'd stand up straight if he could? It hurt, and he was tired of hurting. The drugs were starting to wear off with a vengeance, leaving a growing catalogue of aches and pains behind them. The mountain, unconcerned, trundled behind him and yanked him upright, holding him in place when his knees tried to buckle. He wasn't sure how much he should appreciate the gesture.

A hand grabbed his chin to pull his head up; irritated, he jerked it away, only to have the mountain tap him on the less-abused cheekbone. No point in asking for more trouble, he conceded wearily, and he didn't resist when he found himself staring into the opaque black pools from which Aubrey Wyler viewed the world. He swallowed thickly. They were so cold, so blank, so utterly lifeless. As Wyler continued to gaze at him unblinkingly, he felt a sudden kinship with any small animal terrorized by a snake's hypnotic glance. He moved his head uncontrollably, attempting to escape that soulless stare, and Wyler laughed. "There's nowhere to run, Lieutenant. Not here. Not even in this room." The iron hand inexorably forced his head back to the ophidian gaze. "You can't pretend to hide behind a drug-induced haze now, so let's try it one more time."

Steve Sloan forced his weary eyes back to Wyler's chilling ones. "And what happens then?" he asked calmly, tiredly, managing somehow to control most of the slurring.

Wyler's smile broadened. "That depends on what you have to say," he remarked.

Steve said nothing, waiting for the inevitable arrogance of the man to manifest itself. He wasn't disappointed. Unfortunately, what he heard was less than encouraging. "I'm afraid you're going to have enjoy our hospitality for a while longer. How comfortable you'll be, however, is entirely up to you." Somehow, Steve didn't think they were discussing the deluxe accommodations, but he waited, although it took all of his hard-gained self-control not to flinch when the dead eyes fixed on him again. "All right," the rich voice so at odds with those eyes said. "Again. Where is your wife?"

He swallowed with difficulty. He must have taken a hefty whack on the head at some point, because he was just not connecting. "Look," he said hoarsely, "I still don't understand. What are you talking about? I'm not married."

Solario's hand stopped her lover's before it signaled the mountain. She leaned close to him, whispering, then both of them turned assessing frowns on their prisoner. "What's the last thing you remember?" the woman asked casually.

"Breakfast?" he hazarded, not sure where the interrogation was heading.

"What day?"

"Yesterday?" he guessed wildly. Solario stared at him, then looked at Wyler. "He's been pretty consistent in his response when we mention his wife," she pointed out, too softly for Steve to hear. "Could he be having some temporary memory loss from the drugs?" They both turned their attention to the bewildered man before them, then Wyler shook his head in disgust. "Bah," he snorted contemptuously. "What nonsense." His eyes flickered towards the mountain and back again. "Last time. Where is Miranda?" he demanded.

While the other two had pondered, Steve had noticed Wyler was wearing a watch, which apparently was one of the models which showed the date as well. He had been concentrating as hard as he could on focusing on it, hoping knowing what day it was would clear some of the fog in his head. Finally, he determined what it read, and something clicked into place in his mind as he felt the sick tension in his muscles ease slightly. Randy was safe, or they wouldn't be still asking about her. He coughed and answered hoarsely, "Miranda's gone, Wyler. Long gone. And the Feds are on their way." Wyler's blink of surprise must have been a signal, he thought dazedly, as his body screamed in protest from the impact with the mountain.

Wyler's voice was an infuriated hiss. "What makes you think we won't kill you now, then?"

Steve was desperately hanging onto every ounce of strength he possessed to keep from losing consciousness, but the prognosis was not encouraging. "I'm worth more to you alive then dead, and you know it," he stated baldly. "If the Feds aren't crawling through this place already, they will be soon."

The reptilian eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and Wyler laughed. "Not here, Lieutenant. You're not at the ranch anymore." Seeing the other's eyes widen in turn, he chuckled nastily and gloated, "You're now a resident of a very exclusive facility for individuals suffering from drug addiction."

"What do you mean?" Steve growled, not really sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Tanya Solario stroked her lover's cheek, then drew the same hand along Steve's cheekbone, enjoying the sensation of the muscle jumping in his clenched jaw in response. "It means," she explained, "that, once your ribs have healed sufficiently, Dr. Morgan is going to be able to continue his fascinating research in the effects of methadone addiction."

His mouth went dry. "I'm not --" he started involuntarily, and this time did flinch from her caress. "You will be," she purred, "eventually. Right now, though, I think Aubrey has something else planned."

Re-enter the mountain. Fortunately for his abused body, Steve's resistance was already sapped to the point that it only took a few more blows slamming into him to send him into oblivion, drugs be damned.


	2. Hitting the Fan

LAPD Captain James Newman was pacing. Not roaming nervously, or wandering lost deep in thought, but stalking the room like a caged tiger, muscles bunching impressively under his shirt and vest as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His jacket had been flung across the office during his first furious outburst, and it looked like his tie was next. Cheryl Banks sat tensely and waited for the storm to strike in force.

He didn't keep her waiting long. "What kind of moon-brained lunacy were you two up to, anyway, Banks? Did the concept of clearing any kind, I repeat any kind, of investigation WHATSOEVER with your commanding officer go down the toilet just because Sloan wasn't back to duty yet?" Another yank on the tie, and he wheeled about to stand squarely in front of her. "Whose asinine idea was this, anyway? Please tell me it wasn't yours. Of course," he added sarcastically, "if it wasn't, that would mean you had lost your wits enough to go along with it!" He paused for breath, while Cheryl debated whether she should attempt to respond.

"Answer me, dammit!"

She took a deep breath and sent up a quick prayer to the patron saint, whoever he or she might be, of unfortunate cops caught between their partners and their bosses. "Actually, sir, it wasn't really Steve's idea either." She could swear the captain was starting to foam at the mouth. "It was -- Randy Wolfe --"

"What? That crazy woman?"

"--And Dr. Sloan," she finished unhappily.

Now the tie did come off, to smack viciously against the wall clock, where it hung crazily on the minute hand before sliding off onto the floor. Newman leaned over his hapless victim; her horrified gaze confirmed that he was foaming. "Detective, just because I authorized the raid doesn't mean you're going to get away with not telling me what happened. I want the whole story. Now. Fast. Then I want Mark Sloan and the Wolfe woman down here pronto."

"We're already here." Mark spoke from the doorway, his arm protectively around Randy's shoulders; Jesse and Amanda crowded behind them. "We let ourselves in; I hope you don't mind."

Newman's head came up with a snap as he started to expound on interfering medical dilettantes who didn't have enough to keep themselves busy without hanging about police investigations and getting in the way, and stopped. Mark looked like he had aged ten years overnight. There were dark bruises under his eyes, and worry had etched deep grooves down either side of his nose. The mustache drooped, and there were nicks where he had obviously had difficulty concentrating on shaving. Newman sighed. All badinage about Mark Sloan's part-time occupation aside, he had a deep respect for the man, not just as a gifted doctor and the father of one of his best detectives, but for his own investigative skills as well. He waved a hand tiredly.

"Sit down, Dr. Sloan." He scooped his jacket off the chair where he had flung it. "You too, Ms. Wolfe. Sorry about the mess." He noticed the other two as they followed Mark and Randy in, and, greeting them belatedly, quickly scared up more chairs.

"Actually," Randy said, with some trepidation, "it's Mrs. Sloan." She perched on the arm of Mark's chair, reluctant to leave whatever protection he could offer against the madman in the vest.

Newman's mouth hung open. "What?" He started to comment about the lack of an invitation, but dropped it after getting a good look at her face. She might be nuts, but she was obviously dead serious. Randy frowned. "At least, I think it is. I have a certificate saying we were married by the Ultimate Enlightened One." Her frown deepened. "Guess I'd better make sure he could do it legally."

Totally lost, Newman looked to Cheryl for help; at her shrug, he dropped into his own chair with a heavy sigh. "All right. From the very beginning. Tell me the whole sordid story."

Some time later, he leaned forward on his elbows, rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed again. Incredibly, he had been given a more or less complete picture. For once, Randy had been able to tell her part of it with a minimum of her natural tendency to digress, although she had already been through it the night before at the beach house to a much more sympathetic audience. Unfortunately, the story didn't get easier with the retelling. Captain Newman glanced at her worried eyes and saw her fears reflected in those of the others. He didn't feel too sanguine about Steve's chances himself.

"Ms. Wolfe -- excuse me, Mrs. Sloan," he said heavily, "I'm not going to belabor the point that this was not a smart idea to begin with. Believe me, your husband will hear it from me when he gets back; he'll be lucky I let him drive a desk for a while instead of busting him down to Vice." The glint in his eye took the sting from the words, betraying his own concern. "For now, though, I'm giving the search top priority, and I'm taking charge of it myself. Banks, you're going to be given a chance to redeem yourself for your part in this debacle by liaising with the Feds." He turned to Mark. "Dr. Sloan, if you want to help out, I could use you in looking through the computer files. The number of businesses and properties involved in this operation is staggering."

Mark nodded. "You think he's being held at some location owned by one of the subcompanies?" he asked.

"It's possible," Newman replied. "It's all information which will need to be reviewed for both the state and federal cases against Wyler, so it's worth looking into. If they're holding him somewhere, it's going to be some place that's not easily traced back." He gave Mark a grave look. "I have the distinct feeling you're not exactly open to the alternative possibility."

Mark shook his head. "My son's not dead, Captain. From what Randy has told us about Wyler and his associates, they have every reason to keep him alive, and a good deal more to lose by killing him, although I don't know whether we're likely to see any kind of ransom demand soon." He swallowed suddenly, and his shoulders slumped with weariness. "Let's just hope they don't do too much damage in the interim."


	3. Experimentation

He was lying on his back on the cot, counting the speckle holes in the ceiling tile for lack of any other form of amusement. Not much in this place for stimulation, mental or physical, when left to one's own devices. And, even if he had felt like doing anything while his ribs healed, he was certain they had some kind of surveillance tape running, and he really wasn't inclined to provide his unseen watchers with any more free entertainment than was absolutely unavoidable. He wasn't sure if he should feel any gratitude for having been freed from the strait-jacket and having his broken ribs taped, as well as other miscellaneous scrapes and bruises attended to (they had even hauled him down to a lab for x-rays to check for any kidney damage); he couldn't shake a vague memory from just prior to the last beating about some doctor wanting him more or less healed. In an ordinary world, his especially, this shouldn't have been cause for concern, except that same indefinite recollection had left him with the distinct impression that this was not a doctor he wanted to treat him. He sighed, wishing he could put his finger on it, and swore when he lost count.

His knee advised him rudely that it still existed. Slowly, he sat up and began surreptitiously massaging it, trying to curl his body on the cot in an attempt to shield his activity from any interested observers. Even though he had been left alone for the last day or so, judging by how often food had been brought to him, he was leery of reminding whoever was watching of any more vulnerable areas than necessary.

He stiffened as angry voices crackled through the speaker grille in the door. Getting closer by the sound of them; now they had stopped right outside. One in particular, loud and apoplectic, sent ripples of apprehension through him, and he involuntarily shrank back against the wall, hugging his knees, as the door opened. His fears were well-placed. Aubrey Wyler came roaring in, fists up and ready. "You son of a bitch! You--"

The waiting man's inability to control his instinctive flinching back registered abruptly, and Wyler calmed just as suddenly. "Afraid of me, Sloan?" he jeered, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Steve knew it was stupid, but he couldn't force himself to say what Wyler wanted to hear. "Anyone with any sense gives a mad dog room," he pointed out, congratulating himself on keeping his voice even.

Wyler's fists clenched, then relaxed, and he was in control again. Damn, thought Steve. Just what I don't need. He forced himself to meet Wyler's eyes, trying to ignore the nausea they inspired, and the two remained that way for a seeming eternity, defiant blue eyes blazing at the dead black ones. Finally, with an effort, Steve tore his gaze away and returned to his inspection of the ceiling. "Say what you have to say and go away, Aubrey. I have ceiling tiles to count."

He hadn't realized until then that Wyler didn't need mountains to do the physical work; the madman simply preferred not to indulge except in rare cases. Steve had just qualified for the exception clause. Coughing, his ribs aflame after the surprise one-two-three punches, he backed up and eyed the other man warily, wondering how much of a piece of Wyler he could get before the mountain showed up. His body was insistently claiming he didn't want to try, but his emotions, his pride, his frustration, all clamored for him to do the proper male thing and get the daylights knocked out of him. He raised a fist involuntarily, then let it fall, as reason won out in the end. His mouth twisted, and he turned away. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out. You can explain to your pal Morgan why my ribs are still bashed in."

Face contorted with rage, Wyler contented himself with grabbing Steve's shoulder, yanking the hurt man around to face him, and smashing a sweeping, vicious blow into the lieutenant's face. Steve went down with a crash. He lay still for a moment, then, after ensuring his arms and legs still worked, opted to remain where he was in case it was safer.

Maybe not. Wyler strode closer until the toe of his boot was directly aimed at the worst part of Steve's long-suffering ribs, prodding him gently but menacingly. Wyler's voice reverberated in his head. "I suppose I should tell you that your little foray at the ranch has cost me five years' work and a lot of money, not to mention the potential legal fees." Steve raised a silent cheer. One for the good guys.

The toe came back, prodding him again. "I'm going to advise Frank that I'm done with you," Wyler snarled. "I understand he's been concentrating lately on the effects of hallucinogens on drug addicts, which should address the problem of how to deal with you." The toe was now getting really annoying. "As far as your meddling father and your whore of a wife are concerned --"

Wrong words. The man on the floor exploded in sudden rage, grabbing Wyler's leg and heaving him upwards, deriving no small satisfaction from the surprised grunt of pain upon contact with the wall. Wyler lurched upright and jerked his head to the watching attendants. "Keep him right where he is," he grated, panting.

Damn, damn, damn. His mother had warned him years ago that action begets reaction, but he had taken as much as he possibly could be expected to, and it had felt so damn good. Watching Wyler approach (with a bit of a limp, he noted with savage pleasure), trying not to struggle against the hands forcing him to the floor so as to provide the s.o.b. with any more enjoyment, he clutched the feeling of satisfaction, as well as the image of Wyler's flight and landing, to himself, much as a shield against what was to come, his ribs instinctively shrinking away from it.

He received fresh insight into the true sadistic nature of Aubrey Wyler. The black eyes contemplated the immobilized prisoner for a moment, noting the involuntary tightening of muscles. Then Wyler smiled his death's head grimace, and deliberately kicked him hard in his bad knee.

Wyler stared contemptuously at the man writhing on the floor, nerveless hands uselessly gripping the injured leg, fingers white to the bone with the strain of silently containing his agony. "It doesn't matter if you actually scream or not," the crow-like figure informed him, obviously savoring the moment. "All I need is to know you wanted to." He strode to the door, turning back briefly. "Goodbye, Sloan. I will at least eventually be able to recoup my losses. You, on the other hand, are destined for a different type of expansion altogether -- of the mind." He laughed triumphantly and walked out, the door closing with a particularly final sound.

Steve squeezed pain-filled eyes tightly shut, trying to breathe, swearing quietly and viciously to himself as he waited for the waves of agony to subside. He had to admit, though, that the news of the successful raid helped ease the pain a little. He grinned wryly in spite of himself; he would have given anything to have seen Randy, his magnificent Randy, bullying the Feds, much less Captain Newman, into running the raid.

His musings lost direction briefly, as he wondered what Wyler had meant by referring to a wife. They had pretended to be engaged, that much he remembered, and God knows he wouldn't mind marrying her, but in reality? Try as he might, he couldn't dredge up any specific recollection. He sighed. He supposed he might be able to recall something if he put enough effort into it, but, for now, he was exhausted. Slowly, with painstaking care so as not to disturb his jangled nerves and other aching body parts, he rolled over onto his back and started counting again, holding the memory of Randy's smile close to his heart.

The sound of footsteps roused him from the doze he'd fallen into after tiring of the speckles. His hands clenched involuntarily as he listened, body taut with apprehension, waiting for the steps to pass. His heart plummeted as they stopped, followed by the predictable clinking of keys. The door opened to admit two attendants (goons, Steve's mind translated), a nurse, and a heavy-set man with a beard and a lab coat, obviously a doctor. The attendants immediately approached him and pulled him upright, directing him to the cot. He recognized the nurse when she got closer to him; she had been taking care of his misused ribcage. He smiled at her tentatively.

Nurse Rachel Pauling smiled back as reassuringly as she could. As one would with a patient, she had grown fond of the quiet, handsome man who never complained, even when he was obviously in pain. It was a pity that, according to his chart, he had such a substantial weakness for substance abuse, which had made him eligible for participation in Dr. Morgan's research program. She helped him remove his T-shirt, exposing strong, well-developed shoulders and chest, so she could examine his taped ribs. "These seem to be doing pretty well, Doctor," she reported. She handed Steve another T-shirt. "Put this on, please."

He looked dubiously at the strange sleeves, which had an series of buttons along the outer side, and glanced at her questioningly. She wondered again why he spoke so little, but he obviously wasn't going to tell her. "I'll show you in a couple of minutes," she said gently. She helped him with the shirt and nodded at the doctor.

No great shakes, Steve decided shortly thereafter. Dr. Morgan had checked his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, chest, made him cough, and tested his reflexes. He wasn't sure what the deal was. The doctor enlightened him, taking his arm, finding a vein, and swabbing it. When he reached over to a tray containing a syringe, Steve drew back, alarmed. "What are you doing?" he asked anxiously.

Rachel felt sorry for him. "It's all right," she soothed. "Come on, make a fist."

Reluctantly, he did as he was told. The needle slid in, cold at first, then he was aware of a feeling of heat as the drug began to course through his body. Something was wrong. This didn't feel like any kind of painkiller he had ever received courtesy of Community General, and he'd had occasion to sample quite a few over the course of his detective career. This stuff burned. He jerked his arm away, glaring at the doctor resentfully.

"What the hell did you give me?" he demanded.

The attendants had taken his arms, and Rachel was sliding what looked like a cotton tube with hands up one of them. He tried to pull away, but was held fast. The cloth glove was fitted over his hand, and she turned to fasten the top of the sleeve to the buttons on his shirt.

He was getting a very bad feeling. He still wasn't sure what they were doing, but he definitely didn't want to find out. Unfortunately, the goons anticipated his sudden rush for freedom, and he found himself, while not as bone-jarringly as before, face down, hard, on the floor. He raised his head dizzily, trying to throw the weight off of his back, but was pinned again. Relentless hands pulled his arms out in front of him, and he felt cloth moving up the unsleeved arm, wrapping around his hand, buttons clicking into place. The hands released him. Dazed, he lay still, trying to get his bearings, then slowly progressed to hands and knees, vision still blurred from his sudden encounter with the floor. He lifted a gloved hand to rub his eyes, and promptly fell flat on his face again when the other hand, similarly wrapped, came with it. Cautious investigation revealed that his sleeves were connected just above the wrist by a short piece of material. "What the hell is this, and what did you give me?" he growled.

"The muffles are for your own protection," lectured the doctor. "They were invented specially for patients in experimental drug therapy, who historically have shown considerable inventiveness in harming themselves, even with their own fingernails. We need to make sure you can't hurt yourself during the course of this study."

"What did you give me?" Steve snarled again, his voice rising.

Morgan stepped over and helped him up to sit on the cot, then peered into each eye. "I'm researching the possible usage of combinations of narcotics and hallucinogens. This is our baseline session, one substance only."

Steve shook his head. "This isn't methadone. Doesn't feel right."

The doctor's laugh was not pleasant. "Oh, no. I need a baseline on the hallucinogen. Think of it as a free phencyclidine, or PCP, trip."

His reflexes already starting to dull, he was too slow to attack, and the goons caught him easily and shoved him back onto the cot. He watched, dazed, as the group started to leave, and recognition of what had just happened slowly, inevitably, began to set in. He called out, voice ragged, but his plea was lost as the door thudded shut. Out of habit, he glanced up at the ceiling, and as rapidly looked away again, breathing heavily to try to calm his jittering nerves. The tile speckles, his familiar link to sanity for so long, were impossible to count now, because they were no longer stationary, crawling over the ceiling like so many species of beetles. He moaned softly and closed his eyes, only to snap them open again as an endless void opened up behind his lids. His last coherent thought before things became very surreal, and his arm turned into something with feathers, was that it looked like it was going to be a very bumpy ride.

He came out it slowly, feeling renewed pain in his knee, his nerves jittering, and shaking uncontrollably. His throat was raw from yelling, although he had no clear memory of it. His head felt incredibly heavy, but he wasn't sure if that was because earlier it had been lighter than a balloon. He shuddered, once, twice, whole body shivering from head to toe, and collapsed onto the cot, wrapping the thin blanket around himself as tightly as possible with his hobbled arms to escape the chill. He didn't dare count speckles now.


	4. Further Experimentation

Steve was finally sleeping, although fitfully, when the medical team returned, and resisted being awakened until Dr. Morgan whispered "Aubrey Wyler" into his ear, which brought him awake and sweating with a vengeance. The doctor noted his reaction with interest and filed it away for future reference. Having satisfied himself that Wyler was nowhere to be seen, Steve relaxed enough to let the doctor examine him. "Very interesting reactions you had," Morgan commented.

Steve eyed him warily. Interesting was not exactly the word he would have chosen to describe his experience. Chaotic, maybe. Exhausting, certainly. He wished they'd go away and let him sleep, now that he could close his eyes to normal, reassuring darkness instead of that bottomless abyss. He watched disinterestedly as the doctor made a series of notes. Rachel had left on some errand, and he was bored. "Hey, doc," he said suddenly, "tell me something."

Morgan glanced up, brows raised. "Yes?" His tone was not particularly encouraging, but Steve didn't care. "What's your connection with Wyler, anyway?"

The doctor gave him an amused look. "Just what makes you think I'd tell you?" he inquired with a trace of derision in his tone.

Steve spread his hands as far as his restraints would allow. "Do I look like I'm going anywhere?"

"Point taken," the doctor conceded. "I suppose it doesn't make much difference -- and it might be interesting to see how well you succeed in retaining the details over the course of the study."

A chill sliver slid down Steve's spine at Morgan's careless comment, but he forced himself to look expectant. "Aubrey and I were in college together," the doctor explained. "We've worked together periodically, although we don't always agree philosophically. Occasionally, we have invested in each other's interests."

"Like your clinic?" Steve asked innocently.

His casualness wasn't wasted on the doctor. "Nosy, aren't you? No, Mr. Miller, I'm not going to enlighten you as to the business structure involved. Just take it from me that the path from Aubrey Wyler to my clinic is extremely well hidden. You'd be more likely to die of old age waiting for the Feds to figure it out."

Steve stared at him doubtfully. The room felt suddenly chilly, and he shivered, hoping the information confiscated from Wyler would indeed lead some bright agent to figure out the route to Morgan's nasty little operation. That, he realized with a flash of insight, would explain this "Miller" nonsense -- patient lists, on the face of them, wouldn't necessarily reveal his presence. But that didn't explain why they kept up the pretense to his face. "Hey, doc? Why do you keep calling me Miller?"

Again the raised eyebrows. "What do you think we should call you?" the doctor asked calmly.

"My name is Sloan. Steve Sloan. Lt. Steve Sloan, LAPD."

Morgan gave him a pitying look. "I'm sorry, but it's Steve Miller. You were with the LAPD. You've been sent here to deal with ongoing problems with substance abuse; they've affected your performance, gotten you suspended. This place is your only hope of getting your life back."

The speech sounded wholly sincere. The expression on the doctor's face was not. He watched Steve's reaction with malice in his eyes, enjoying his patient's discomfiture.

"You and I both know you're lying," Steve finally said tightly.

"Doesn't matter what either one of us knows right now," the doctor said indifferently. "All that matters is what you'll eventually come to believe, and that the world follows suit. That will justify my efforts." As Steve stared at him in silence, the doctor gestured at his knee. "Haven't exactly given this a chance to heal, have you?" he inquired.

Under the circumstances, the last thing Steve wanted to discuss was his knee. He said nothing, viewing Morgan with suspicion. Rachel chose that moment to return. "Mr. Miller --"

"My name isn't Miller!" Steve exploded, trying unsuccessfully to get some kind of purchase or grip on the cloth crosspiece in order to rip it apart. The design prevented any such attempt, however, and he knew it. He let his shoulders slump back and regarded his visitors with hostility. "Sloan. Steve Sloan," he muttered grumpily.

Rachel shrank back from the intensity of his gaze. It really was a pity; maybe the research study would help him overcome his addictive tendencies. She exchanged a long look with the doctor. "Initial delusions, sir?"

Morgan wore a small, secretive smile. "Hard to tell yet. If he gets those in the baseline --"

They were interrupted by an annoyed patient. "Could you discuss my medical condition somewhere else?"

Rachel turned towards him, a placating look on her face, when Morgan stopped her. "Send one of the attendants in and wait outside, please, Ms. Pauling," he commanded.

Steve's head came up as he caught an odd expression in the doctor's eyes which made him uneasy. His instincts were accurate; the attendant who entered was his previous acquaintance, the mountain. "Oh, no," he said with resignation. "Not again." He glowered at Morgan. "What the hell kind of doctor are you, anyway?"

The doctor gave him a remote look. "A curious one. It's the learning which matters most." He nodded at the mountain man, who grinned hugely and whitely as he approached. Steve bared his own teeth in response and considered his options. Launching an offensive attack would salvage his pride, assuming he could actually do any damage to the behemoth; he could just sit still and take the punishment; or he could try to delay the eventual battering by trying to imitate a very slowly moving target. The mountain put a rapid end to his debate. At a signal from the doctor, so fleeting that Steve, watching suspiciously, was unable to interpret it in time, the mountain grabbed his knee, and, smiling gently, exerted pressure and squeezed.

Steve practically came off the cot, choking back the sounds which threatened to leap from his throat, trying vainly to dislodge the big man's powerful grip. The mountain sneered at his puny efforts and squeezed again, and Steve's world went gray, then black, then shrank away altogether.

He came around to nurse Pauling wiping his face with a cool cloth. He had no sense of having passed out, and was disturbed by his inability to remember. She was still calling him Miller, but he didn't have the energy to address the matter. Waking up also brought an increasing awareness of white-hot fire in his knee, worse than any pain before. A moan escaped him as the flame shot through his leg, and Rachel looked up from her work. "Mr. Miller? Are you in pain?"

He wanted to tell her that the question was pretty stupid, but was afraid the noises hovering in his throat would escape if he opened his mouth, so he settled for nodding, hoping she would understand and make the pain stop. She did. He felt her working the buttons, then a needle in his arm, which he shrank away from at first until she succeeded in calming his fears, sent 20mg of methadone, twice the customary dosage, through his body.

The drug was working. Rachel's face had acquired an artistic blur, much like the techniques they used in old movies for love scenes. He felt like he was wrapped in soft, soft cotton. Ordinarily, the level of his disorientation would have bothered him, but the relief to his throbbing knee overruled any other concerns. Don't let this stop, he thought confusedly, and smiled muzzily at Rachel before sleep overcame him.

She stayed for a while, watching him sleep. She thought she preferred him that way, with those dangerous eyes closed. She wondered if she would want to be the recipient of a passionate glance from those intense blue eyes, and decided it could very easily burn her alive. He looked like the type of man who took his serious moments very seriously indeed. He was definitely sexy, though, she admitted, tempted for a moment. Then her natural caution kicked in; somehow she knew he was not the type of man who took sex lightly either. She shook herself mentally and turned away. Watch yourself with this one, my girl, she told herself sternly, and went to see to one of her less distracting patients.

Some time later, Steve's nap was interrupted by the mountain, who shook his head, presumably reassuringly, when Steve, only half awake and still dazed by disturbing dreams, backed up against the wall so he could maneuver his restrained arms around drawn-up knees to provide them with what little protection he could. It rumbled something and held up a syringe.

"What is it?" the man on the cot asked with suspicion.

Another rumble, which eventually was decipherable as something approximating, "Time for your medication."

Although he was leery at first, Steve's careful prodding at his knee produced a very nasty feeling. "Just meth?" he questioned, not sure what his alternatives were if it wasn't. The mountain nodded, and expended some effort in attempting a kindly expression. The hell with it, Steve decided abruptly. It wasn't as if the guy was likely to take no for an answer, and he'd rather minimize any possibility of providing an excuse for one of those "taps." He shrugged and held out his arms, then looked sidelong at Junior, as the attendant started to unbutton his sleeve. He tensed, ready to try to rip out of the damn thing as soon as he had any opening at all, and felt the mountain tap his arm, no doubt bruising it on impact. He turned his head to receive the full glare from the huge attendant's toothy grin, and saw in it a promise he didn't want to see kept. Ever so slowly, he let out the breath he had been holding, and his tense muscles relaxed. The mountain smiled and nodded at him approvingly, although Steve fancied he still saw a tinge of disappointment in the man's eyes. He administered the injection quite gently, however, secured the sleeve, and left without inflicting any additional damage, leaving Steve to float back into his semi-stupor.

He had received yet another dose before Dr. Morgan returned. Barely able to focus, Steve had glanced up when the door opened, giggled, and inanely requested a beer. The doctor smirked at him. "Are you quite comfortable, Mr. Miller?"

Steve started to flap a hand at the doctor but stopped, frowning, when both hands flapped instead. "That's stupid," he observed grumpily. He was scowling at his hands, spreading his gloved fingers back and forth, when the doctor intervened. "Come on, let's sit up."

He tolerated the procedure with barely concealed impatience. "Whaddya want?" he slurred.

"We're going to try another experiment, Mr. Miller," Morgan explained. Steve blinked at him owlishly. He had a strange, indefinite feeling that the doctor's statement should bother him, but he was having a hard time concentrating on anything for any length of time. "Okay," he said simply, brightening considerably when he saw Rachel enter. She was going to give him another of those shots that made everything nice and fuzzy, and nothing hurt. He held his arms out so she could unbutton his sleeve and grinned at her foolishly.

She didn't meet his eyes as she swabbed his arm and stuck in the needle. After refastening his sleeve, she turned to the doctor. "May I go ahead and move him now, sir?" she asked, quietly, not knowing whether Steve could hear her. Morgan nodded. "Probably easier now while he's more or less cooperative," he commented. "Is the mirror in place?" She nodded and took Steve's arm, pulling at him. "Come on, Mr. Miller, we're going to give you a new room."

He started to protest; then some small sense of self-preservation surfaced. He wasn't supposed to upset her. She gave him the good stuff to keep him from hurting. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be guided out of his small, white room and down the hall, hoping there would be speckles.

Speckles there were. White walls also. Almost a duplicate of his previous accommodations, except everything looked soft. The cot had lost its legs to downsize into something resembling a futon, and the small toilet area had a heavily padded covering on the porcelain parts. The same speaker grille. There was, however, a significant addition, an unbreakable plexiglas mirror inserted in one wall. Rachel released his arm, and he wandered around, touching the material on the walls wonderingly, eventually coming face to face with the mirror. "Whoa," he remarked. "Fella needs a shave." Losing interest, he turned away, continuing to wander, while Rachel and Morgan watched him silently.

He didn't feel so hot suddenly. What had they given him for lunch? He couldn't remember. The nausea increased anyway, and he decided abruptly that he wanted to sit down, not hearing the door quietly snick closed.

Morgan observed with barely concealed excitement as the hidden camera in Steve's new digs pitilessly relayed every subsequent image. His patient was not having a pleasant experience, which tended to support his theory concerning chasing methadone with PCP. He watched as the sufferer writhed on the floor, arms apparently warding off something or someone only he could see. The doctor licked his lips and started making notes.

Steve was convinced his arms were being turned into rubber hoses by the thing he saw squatting in front of him. He kept protesting that he couldn't play piano with rubber hoses. The thing apparently didn't care. A remote corner of his brain, somehow untouched by the hallucination, pointed out that he couldn't play piano anyway. Confused, Steve managed to lurch semi-upright, and stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, only to see it disappear as Morgan's research assistant touched a button, veiling the plexiglas with the same material which surrounded it. Startled, Steve touched the padding, and froze as it disappeared in its turn. There crouched a shaggy-haired, gorse-chinned, wild-eyed maniac, clutching at him with extended paws. He backpedaled hurriedly, tripping and falling backwards; when he lifted his head, it was gone again.

Morgan stood up and stretched. "Keep that up for fifteen minutes more and record everything. I'll be back." The assistant nodded and pressed the button again.

The game finally got old. A highly disoriented Steve had followed along in the insane variation of peek-a-boo, yelling and gesticulating at the phantom when it appeared, until he finally rushed it, only to bounce off the padded wall with considerable force to lie stunned, face down, for several minutes. Finally, he managed to roll over, then decided it was too much trouble to get up. He glanced up, searching for his friends the speckles, and screamed as the bugs came back.


	5. Rallying the Troops

Mark took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. While he was grateful for being allowed to participate in the paper chase portion of the search for his son, he couldn't help wishing Wyler had felt the need to insert his fingers into fewer corporate pies. He only hoped they would be able to find some clue to Steve's whereabouts before -- no, he told himself sternly, he wasn't even going to entertain such defeatist notions. They would find Steve. Alive and hopefully well.

"Mark, dinner." Amanda Bentley gently tugged at his shoulder, determined not to take no for an answer. "Come on. Otherwise, I'll enlist Randy and we'll both nag you."

Mark stretched. "Heaven forbid. That woman has way too much energy. You won't see me looking for trouble!"

"I heard that!" Randy called from the kitchen. She came into the dining room, though not quite with her customary breeziness, deposited a steaming pot of curry on the table and sat down. "Eat, everyone." After a few minutes of blissful enjoyment, Jesse took a swig of his beer and turned to Mark. "How are those printouts coming?" he asked.

Mark crossed his eyes. "Aside from the strange tendency of the type face to become increasingly smaller, I'm not sure. I think we can probably rule out the high-tech end companies, but I'm not sure we should necessarily concentrate on the shipping and warehousing operations just because they would be more obvious choices." He shook his head. "I have a feeling I should be able to figure this out, but I'm missing something somewhere."

The telephone rang; he excused himself, then brought the phone to Randy. "It's for you, dear." They watched with concern as an uncharacteristic wave of red spread over her face; she thanked the caller tersely and set the phone down, simmering. They waited, watching her anger rise, until Amanda finally asked quietly, "What was that about?"

Randy started to sputter. "That -- that -- despicable, overinflated, dyed in the wool, sanctimonious, overbearing -- fake!" She continued in this vein for several minutes, to the rapt fascination of her companions. Finally, she ran out of breath and expletives, and gasped to a stop. There was a long pause.

"Uh - honey?" Mark ventured tentatively.

She was still visibly steamed. "It's not legal," she stormed.

"What's not legal?" Jesse asked, puzzled.

Amanda shot him a one-more-stupid-remark-and-I'll-hurt-you look. "You mean the marriage certificate?" she asked helpfully.

Randy nodded. "That was the only good part of that whole damn day," she grumbled. "First that son of a bitch kidnaps my husband, then I find out he's not really my husband." She rose and started to pace, or maybe prowl, muttering to herself, then snapped her fingers. "I've got it!" she crowed.

"Got what?" the confused trio chorused.

She had that too-familiar dangerous look. "I'm going to file a class action suit against Aubrey Wyler and the Enlightenment Ranch."

"That's right!" Jesse exclaimed. "It's not just you and Steve, there's all those other people who got suckered into thinking they were married when -- well," he amended, finally noticing Amanda's pointed glare, "you know what I mean."

Mark started to smile. "Might have some good nuisance value, and be another way to force Wyler to disclose all of his interests, corporate or otherwise." He patted her arm. "Go get him. And let me know any way I can help."


	6. From Really Bad to Much Worse

There followed a bleak period of existence which led him to wonder, during his more clearheaded moments, whether Morgan had been right, and he was buried so completely in Wyler's corporate labyrinth that his family would never have any inkling what had happened to him. His less lucid periods ranged from speculating if he had somehow outlived everyone and was lost forever in these white walls to a total inability to indulge in any coherent thought whatsoever, and all sorts of variations in between. All the while, whether it was an experiment day (using the term quite loosely, as he had lost all sense of time or its passing), or whether the needle brought him much-needed relief from the pain which always hovered just beyond his reach, waiting for a moment of weakness, he clung to the good moments for as long as possible. During those intervals, he found himself repeating, over and over, a desperate litany of "Sloan. Sloan. Steve Sloan. Randy. Dad. Amanda. Jesse," hoping to lock the names in his drug-clouded mind, safe from the looming mists; but when his tenuous grip on reality started to slide, he couldn't remember any of them.

He was curled up on his bed, arms clutched tight against his chest, legs drawn up slightly, staring at the place where the creature made its peripatetic appearances. He had given up on the speckles. The dark-haired woman watching the images relayed by the camera lit a cigarette and flipped the match into the garbage. "Can he talk at all?" she asked.

Morgan shrugged. "Sometimes, though he's not been very talkative since day one, coherent or otherwise. What did you have in mind?"

Her lips tightened. "Aubrey needs to know exactly what they stole."

Morgan snorted. "Hasn't Aubrey already received a pretty accurate representation of that? Considering the Wolfe woman and Sloan's father have been pounding him into a pulp in court, I don't see how Sloan could add anything useful. Besides," he added, shuffling some papers about on his desk, "I wasn't planning to leave this level of the study yet."

"So try the PCP in conjunction with someone in methadone withdrawal," she suggested impatiently. "And then I can try to get some answers, either before he gets the PCP or after, whichever scares him more."

He regarded her for a moment, then smiled. Steve would not have appreciated it. "Not a bad idea, Tanya. Not bad at all."

Steve awoke from the fitful sleep he had fallen into when the speckles had started to blur. He hadn't planned on observing them, but he had sprawled on his back earlier to find himself without the energy to change his position, and had eventually dozed off. Now he surfaced, feeling a vague disquiet. Something was different, wasn't right. He concentrated for a moment, trying to think which part of the routine he last remembered. A meal, lunch, he thought, had been brought by Rachel, who had apologized for not being able to stay and talk to him as she usually did. He realized suddenly that she had left without giving him any injections, which meant he hadn't received any methadone, or PCP for that matter, for several hours. He tried to calculate just how many hours, but gave up when his head started to ache. In any event, he was considerably overdue if they had him on any kind of schedule. He sneezed suddenly, the force of it shaking his entire body, and bringing with it an immediate uproar from most of his muscles, not just his knee. He rubbed his eyes to clear them, and the blurring dissipated, but the aches did not. Instead, he became aware of a slowly increasing throbbing throughout his body, almost like flu symptoms. That's ridiculous, he thought distractedly, how could I possibly get flu in here? He struggled to sit up, but movement only made the aching worse. With a sigh, he subsided back onto the bed and drifted into a light doze.

His confusion as to the progress of the day increased a little later, when Rachel came in with a tray of what was undeniably breakfast. Roused by the sound of her footsteps, Steve stared at the food and then at his nurse. "What happened to dinner?" he demanded, hoping to get to the bottom of this particular mystery at least.

Startled, Rachel replied, "You refused to touch it and threw it at the wall. I had tried to get you to eat just a little, you tossed it away, lay down, turned your back and refused to talk to me. So I had it cleaned up, and I left." She looked at him sternly. "Are you going to eat your breakfast, or do you plan to trash that also? Because if you do, I'm removing it now. Swabbing that wall is not what I'm trained to do."

Taken aback, Steve shook his head and mumbled something.

"What was that?" Rachel snapped.

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. Rachel, always so gentle, so kind, so understanding, had turned on him like an irritated hen, and he had no idea why. He couldn't remember seeing dinner, much less flinging it across the room. But -- "I'm sorry," he said meekly. "I didn't mean to make more work for you."

Mollified only slightly, she crossed her arms and gave him another stern look. "So, are you going to eat this?"

Given the amount of time which must have passed since he last ate, he should have been ravenous. His appetite, however, had suddenly deserted him. Food definitely was not an option at the moment. "Uh -- I think so." And, as her brow furrowed in a frown, he added hastily, "I just woke up. My stomach's not awake yet. -- I'll eat it in a little while, I promise."

Rachel relaxed. "All right. But if I find it on the wall again, you're cleaning it up yourself." She gave him a quick exam, mostly looking for any changes from the reduced dosage. Then, she patted his cheek and turned to leave, without, he realized, giving him any medication.

"Rachel?" he blurted.

She turned back, looking at him inquiringly. "What is it, Mr. Miller?"

In his anxiety, he forgot to correct her. "Aren't you going to give me -- well -- you know, my meds?" he asked awkwardly, feeling suddenly foolish. Dad had had to practically tie him down in order to get him to take any kind of painkiller; and here he was practically begging for the stuff, and he didn't really even understand why.

She felt a twinge of guilt, but Morgan had warned her this might happen and given her strict instructions. "Are you having any pain?"

Reluctantly, he denied any specific pain; when he raised the issue of the body aches, she shook her head. "You're probably just stiff from sleeping so long after all the jumping about you did yesterday. And that doesn't require medication, you know that."

He couldn't determine why this conversation was making him uneasy, but it was. Unhappily, he watched her leave and the door close. Even though his instincts had dulled in some ways over the course of his captivity, his gut was telling him in no uncertain terms that something was definitely wrong. Unfortunately, it wasn't being nearly as forthcoming as to what that something might be. With a sigh, he picked up the breakfast tray, and immediately dropped it as that same gut heaved in revulsion. He barely reached the toilet before bringing up what little was still in his stomach, and continued to dry heave off and on for several minutes. Got to be flu, he thought, painfully, then retched again as his eyes fell involuntarily on his scattered breakfast.

He crawled back onto his cot, somehow managing to avoid the sight of now doubly scrambled eggs, and shut his eyes tightly, trying to slow the roiling in his stomach, which seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Sweat broke out on his forehead as one particularly nasty cramp seized him, then developed into a bout of shivering. Maybe that last shot wasn't meth but some kind of bug? he wondered crazily, then lost track of anything except the turmoil in his system as another bout of cramps hit. Somehow, he made it to the toilet, then collapsed on the floor as weakness overtook him.

Chapter Thirteen

He totally lost track of time for a while afterwards. He was vaguely aware of forms moving about, the tray being cleared and removed, someone bending down and peeling his eyelids back to examine his pupils. He winced away from the searing light, and tried his best to evade the investigating touch, but then other hands picked him up, and he felt himself being placed on the bed, held down gently but firmly, while the doctor finished his examination. From very far away, he heard Morgan's voice say, "It's not flu. He's in methadone withdrawal."

He hadn't quite digested this information when someone said something indistinguishable, and the doctor replied, "No. Leave him as he is. I want to observe him for a while before he gets anything else."

As the door closed, Steve struggled to make sense of what he had heard, the prickly feeling he had experienced earlier returning in full force, until the fact sank in with cold horror. Morgan (and Rachel too, that irritating sane corner of his mind added, although he steadfastly ignored it) had addicted him to methadone. Now, for whatever reason, probably just for the hell of it, they had cut him off. Cold turkey.

Steve had seen narcotics addicts in various stages of withdrawal before. Considering his current symptoms, and what he could expect to go through, he thought he'd rather undergo a long session with the mountain. Even worse, the decrease of the methadone gave his mind a chance to unfog, but he wasn't sure this was the best time to have a clear head. He shivered, probably more in anticipation, but it turned into a massive, involuntary shuddering which left him limp, gasping for breath, when it finally ended.

The cramps and shivering had worsened steadily when, his hearing unusually sharp, he heard footsteps, but he refused to look up when the door opened. Whoever it was could just go away, as far as he was concerned, unless they were going to do something useful

"Mr. Miller." It was a woman's voice. He didn't care. She repeated his name twice, each time with more impatience, but he continued to ignore her, trying to control the tremors wracking his body. There was a pause, and then she inquired, "Would you like me to have them give you some methadone?"

Despite his best intentions, he opened his eyes, only to meet those of Tanya Solario. "Welcome to the land of the living," she said mockingly.

He had already decided she was on his ten least favorite people list, so he saw no reason to be cooperative or polite. "I wouldn't exactly call this living," he said shortly.

She shrugged one shoulder. "The degree of comfort has always been totally up to you," she pointed out. "No one's forcing you to lie there and hurl your guts out." Unfortunate choice of words; the heaving started before he could control himself. He hoped he'd splattered it on her. She had anticipated his reaction, however, and stepped back out of range. Now she leaned over him once again. "I'm offering you a deal. You keep your part of it, and I'll see to it you get your medication."

"My part?" he asked, closing his eyes wearily and wishing she'd go away.

"Is to tell me exactly which files you remember accessing and stealing from Aubrey's database," she replied.

He started to laugh weakly, which turned into a paroxysm of coughing. He hung on desperately and waited for the spasms to cease. Then, rather bitterly, he said, "You take the cake, Tanya. You and Wyler are both certifiable. You drag me in here, beat the tar out of me, drug me, undrug me, do everything you can possibly do to make me doubt who, what and where I am, turn me into a raving lunatic, and now you seriously expect me to be able to think clearly enough to remember something I saw zap across a computer screen in a universe long ago and far away?"

She started to retort, but he ignored her, enraged, pent-up hostility and his physical discomfort spurring him on. "I have no idea how long ago that was. For all I know, it's been years." He paused, then shook his head. "Morgan told me Dad and Randy have brought several class action suits against Wyler, so that information's probably going to surface sooner or later anyway." He grinned nastily at her, inordinately pleased to give her bad news. "Sorry, Tanya. I can't help you. Tell Aubrey he's just going to have to wait; he's not going to get anything from me."

Furious, she slapped him across the face, then collected her temper with a visible effort. "You think you're sorry now. Just wait." She left, slamming the door behind her.

Cautiously feeling his cheekbone with his gloved hand, Steve sighed. She was undoubtedly right; he was pretty sure he wasn't going to enjoy whatever retaliatory strike came next, but he could only take so much, and at least he had been distracted for a short time from the increasingly intensifying withdrawal symptoms. It was getting more and more difficult to keep himself from thinking about his need for the drug. He hunched himself into a ball as best as he could with his awkward arms and waited, shivering, for whatever was going to happen next.

Slowly, steadily, the cramps got nastier and nastier. The only benefit, he thought, was that the retching had lessened, maybe because he had lost everything in his system long earlier. He winced as another lancing pain streaked through his stomach, and curled himself a little more tightly against his drawn-up knees. He had tried to distract himself by counting the ever-helpful speckles, but the effort of trying to look upward from his hunched position made his head spin even more. He had tried talking to himself until his voice grew hoarse and he realized, shocked, that he was carrying on conversations with people who weren't there. The thought that he might be trying to talk to his father or to Randy triggered misery he didn't think he could stand. He constructed an imaginary debate with Jesse over maintaining BBQ Bob's bottom line, but failed abysmally to sustain it when he could almost hear Jesse's legitimately aggrieved reaction to his lecturing. Try as he might, the only thought processes which he could maintain consistently focused either on his current state of physical discomfort or his mounting need for methadone. He wished, in desperation, that someone, anyone, would come, just so he could be certain he wasn't truly alone.

Finally, when he had reached the point where he didn't think he could bear the acute symptoms any longer, he received a visit from Dr. Morgan, Rachel trailing behind. The doctor took his vital signs, lips pursed. "Hmmm. How do you feel, Mr. Miller?"

The sheer idiocy of the question took Steve by surprise, or he would have gone for Morgan's throat right then. As it was, the doctor saw the fury blaze through his eyes and stepped smartly out of range. "How the hell do you think?" the sick man snapped. "Moron," he added, not quite under his breath.

Morgan crossed his arms and stared at him in annoyance. "You're not helping your situation, you know."

Steve shrugged. "You seriously expect me to believe it makes any difference to your quote-unquote research protocol what I do or don't do."

Morgan shrugged in his turn. "Could be."

Steve's patience was hanging by a fragile thread which was unraveling fast. "Unless you're planning on giving me some methadone, I really couldn't care less."

The doctor smiled nastily. "Like this?" he inquired, holding a syringe just out of Steve's reach. He pulled it back when the other man, temper seething, lunged for it anyway, barely keeping his balance when Morgan pulled it out of range. "Son of a bitch," Steve growled, and started towards it again, only to slam into a wide barrier of an arm. The mountain had returned, and now held him easily in place, not breaking a sweat.

Morgan laughed, earning an distressed glance from his nurse. "Beg for it, and maybe you'll get some," he advised nastily.

It was the wrong thing to say. For a moment, Rachel, horrified, saw murder in the furious blue eyes; then they cleared, his shoulders relaxed, and he shook his head. "Forget it, Morgan." He squinted up at the mountain. "If you don't mind, I'd like to lie down now." The startled attendant glanced at the doctor, as if for approval, then guided Steve's rather unsteady progress toward the bed.

Morgan didn't look particularly perturbed. "That's fine." He pressed the plunger just enough to send a fine spray upward from the needle. "I believe you may appreciate this -- for a little while."

The mountain shifted and had him pinned hard to the bed before he could react. He still didn't understand how such a gigantic body could move so fast. He didn't have much time to speculate, however. Before he could protest, certain now that something very unpleasant was hovering on the horizon, the needle slid in and out, leaving him wondering, with a hint of panic, just what to expect. He could feel the effect of the methadone, but there was something weird about it. Instead of softness surrounding him, it felt almost like the cotton was inside his head, his body. He held his hands up, half-expecting to see swollen balloons, but was not reassured when they still looked like hands. He scowled at the doctor suspiciously. "What did you give me this time?"

"A simultaneous combination of methadone and phencyclidine rather than one following the other. I'm working on the right mixture and percentages."

Steve didn't give a damn about the mixture or the percentages. His last coherent thought for a while was that he would have throttled Morgan if he had been able to stand up.

It appeared that the correct formula was not going to be easily determined. This must be what hell really looks like, Steve mused at one point, staring at the padded white walls. He loathed the periodic injections of whatever Morgan had concocted at that moment, and the resulting hallucinations, but the clearer days came at the cost of withheld drugs and the painful misery which followed. His world had narrowed to the point where neither waking nor sleeping held any attraction; both were equally unpleasant. With the drugs, he didn't dare sleep; off them, his dreams, nightmares really, were violent, ugly, and highly disturbing. He was having more and more difficulty remembering his own name.


	7. Trickle of Hope

It was a decreased drug cycle, and he was morosely contemplating the prospect of the next several hours, which promised to become much worse, when the door opened and Rachel slipped in.

She had been silently watching him on the monitor while her boss was working on his notes, thinking only that it was a pity such measures were necessary, until she glanced up and caught the look of avid enjoyment flitting across Morgan's face. She wondered briefly, but thought nothing more of it until she saw it happen several more times, apparently all when he was also watching her favorite patient. The queasiness she had been experiencing off and on since the combination drug experiments had started came back with a rush. Muttering an excuse about making rounds, she excused herself quickly, releasing a noiseless breath of relief when Morgan nodded without looking up from his papers.

Instead of the patient wing, however, she headed for the offices. Once at the transcriptionist's desk, she called up the computer notes on Steve, only to shudder with revulsion as she absorbed the full extent of Morgan's and Wyler's infamy. After regaining control of her nerves, she returned to the lab, where she told Morgan she would close up shop for the night, assuring him she would stay to keep an eye on "Mr. Miller," and would call him if anything noteworthy happened. She then managed to lower the speaker volume level for Steve's room, thinking that she was going to have to come up with some way of obscuring the camera, and quickly made her way there. She wasn't sure what she was going to do next, but she was working on it.

Steve's initial anxiety on hearing the door fled as he saw Rachel's face, to be replaced by an involuntary feeling of betrayal when he realized her hands were unburdened by any alluring silver needles. He dropped his head onto his raised knees so she wouldn't see the need in his eyes.

Rachel stood there, irresolute. "Steve?" she asked hesitantly.

She'd never called him by his first name. Intrigued in spite of himself, he lifted his head to peer at her curiously, noting her awkward stance; suddenly, he realized she was trying to block the camera, and sat up a little straighter. "You called me Steve," he said, feeling a little foolish.

She nodded. "Steve, I'm so sorry. I didn't know what Morgan was really doing -- your chart's been doctored --"

"To reflect what I am now?" He sounded bitter. "Life imitating truth or truth imitating life?"

"Yes," she said simply, knowing she couldn't really excuse her part in it. "And it says your name is Steve Miller, and --"

"Forget about it," Steve interrupted. He waited with a terrible patience as a particularly severe wave of cramping rode through his body. "You know otherwise," he added when he could speak again.

It was a statement, not a question. She nodded again. "Steve, I can't do anything about the meds. I can't sneak you any methadone because Dr. Morgan's monitoring you too closely. Tell me how else I can help you." He winced as she mentioned the narcotic. Even the sound of the word called to him, fired that all-encompassing need, and it was getting more and more difficult to concentrate on anything else at all. His voice strained, he said, "Rachel -- please, call my father -- Mark Sloan -- and tell him where I am. He'll take care of everything."

"Where --?"

He concentrated, hard. "He's the head of internal medicine at Community General Hospital in L.A. -- call him there, it's probably safer --"

"But --"

He grabbed her arm, of necessity with both hands. The blue eyes did burn, she realized. "All right, Steve. I promise." She squeezed his hand, then ran to the door; on impulse, she turned back, but he had already withdrawn into himself, huddling on the cot, rocking slightly back and forth to cope with the pain. She slipped out and sped down the hall, back to the office, where she yanked out the appropriate phone book, found the number, and hurriedly dialed it.

"Community General. How may I direct your call?"

"Dr. Sloan, please," Rachel whispered, not daring to speak any louder.

There was a brief pause, then the voice returned. "I'm sorry, but he's not available. Dr. Travis is taking his calls."

"Dr. Travis?" Rachel asked, starting to feel a little hysterical.

"That's right, Dr. Jesse Travis. I'll connect you."

Before the hysteria became full-blown panic, she realized the name sounded vaguely familiar. Chasing down the memory, she succeeded in remembering sitting with Steve and hearing him mutter "Jesse" a few times in his less lucid phases. Maybe it would be all right, she thought anxiously. A young man came on the line, but he had no sooner identified himself when she heard footsteps farther down the hall. "Steve. Clinic. Morgan," she blurted, and hung up, hoping it was enough.

Jesse tore up the stairs to the beach house, not wanting to trust the news to a phone. "Mark!" he yelled, panting. "I've got something!"

"Steve -- clinic -- Morgan," Mark repeated thoughtfully. "But why did she call you?"

"She didn't!" Jesse announced triumphantly. "As soon as she hung up, I checked with the switchboard. Annie told me the woman asked for you first." He looked smug, pleased with himself.

"Have you ever heard of a Morgan Clinic?" Randy asked, looking up from the discovery motion she was drafting.

"No," Mark replied, "but that doesn't necessarily mean one doesn't exist. And Morgan could be a doctor's name. I think I'll look into this." He pulled his laptop over and went online. After a few minutes, he had narrowed the field down to three doctors: a urologist ("Highly unlikely," he commented); a chiropractor ("Don't think so," contributed Jesse), and a psychiatrist, one Frank Morgan, M.D. Mark's radar went into ultra-sensitive mode. Tapping the laptop with his finger, he stated, "Something tells me this is our man."

Jesse looked dubious. "But we haven't run across him in any of Wyler's papers, have we?"

"Not yet," Mark answered, "but we've only scratched the surface. At least now we can do a cross-reference search." He picked up the phone and dialed. "Cheryl? Mark Sloan. Here's someone I'd like you to check out -- Frank no middle initial Morgan, M.D. Psychiatrist. Born 1952, med school looks like somewhere in the Caribbean, 1977. Let me know. Thanks." He listened a few more minutes, thanked her again, and disconnected.

Amanda had entered in time to catch the last part of the conversation. "What about a Medline search on him?" she asked.

"That's a good idea," Mark commented. "We might get a clue or two from what he's published." He was soon searching the Medline archives. "Hmmm. Seems to have done some very promising work early on, on psychotropic drugs; then there's a gap for a few years -- that's strange --"

The others looked at him curiously as his voice trailed off. "What is it, Mark?" Jesse wanted to know. Mark raised his eyebrows. "Looks like he went out on a limb a bit here in his research. There's an article from two years ago promoting the therapeutic value of phencyclidine."

"PCP?" Jesse asked in astonishment.

"Yes. There was a school of thought some years back that it could be used beneficially in treating manic depressive disorders, but the theory was discarded after more thorough studies indicated it did more harm than good. Apparently, Morgan disagreed. Let's see here --" He surfed for a few more minutes, then whistled.

Amanda leaned over his shoulder. "Looks like he got a little too attached to his pet ideas."

Mark nodded. "And attracted a lot of flak from some very big psychiatric guns because of it." He scrolled down, until suddenly his hand went still. "I bet this is it."

"What?" Jesse demanded, craning his neck to see.

Mark's tone and face were grim. "His most recent submission here involves combining PCP with a variety of narcotic drugs, apparently with the goal of reducing the paranoid symptomatology. He specifically mentions methadone."

"Oh, my God," Randy's voice floated over from where she was working. She stood up and walked over to the table, bending over to peer at the screen. "It's all my fault."

The trio stared at her in shock. "What are you talking about, Randy?" Amanda asked.

Randy ran her hands through her hair. She had gone back to blonde and pulled it up in her usual fashion. "He promised he'd take it if I stopped nagging him about it." Her listeners still looked confused, so she explained. "He was in pain the night before, but he wouldn't take any of the meth Mark had given him. So I made him promise he'd keep it with him the next day, just in case. He must have still had it in his pocket when they caught him." She sagged into a chair, looking distressed. "It's my fault."

They were attempting to reassure her when the phone rang; Mark snatched it up. "Mark Sloan. Hi, Cheryl. There is? Good. No, not just yet. Let me work on it. Okay. 'Bye." He elaborated for his impatient listeners. "Cheryl found a connection between Morgan and Wyler. Apparently they both own stock in several small boutique companies, a couple of which the Feds have been successful in tracing to Wyler's operation. Since they were only just starting to look at those companies, they hadn't targeted Morgan. Yet. When Cheryl did the specific search, the hits came up." He looked at the notes he'd scribbled. "He's got a clinic up near Fresno." Mark looked up, hope blazing in his eyes. "That has to be it, but we need to be sure before we have the police go in."

Amanda gave him a shrewd look. "What do you have in mind, Mark?"

"Jesse, didn't you do a rotation in psychiatry?"

The young doctor nodded. "Yeah. Lot of weird stuff. I suppose I could toss the jargon around if I had to."

Mark smiled the famous Sloan smile. "I think we should have a bright young doctor with a promising future investigate internship possibilities in Fresno."

Dr. Morgan was in the observation lab when the intercom buzzed. The monitor behind him showed Steve Sloan, sleeping fitfully. "Doctor, a Dr. Travis is here to see you." Morgan surfaced from his concentration. "Oh, yes, the one inquiring about an internship. I'll be there shortly."

Jesse was wandering slowly around Morgan's office, examining the various journals, collectibles and other items stacked almost compulsively neatly everywhere. He turned as the door opened. "Hi! I'm Jesse Travis!" he beamed, sticking out a hand.

"Frank Morgan. Sit down, make yourself comfortable." He settled into his desk chair. "What interests you in my clinic specifically?"

"Well," Jesse said engagingly, "I've done some research on you, and I think the work you're doing has a lot of merit, and I'd like to learn more about it."

Amused, Morgan inquired, "How did you get interested in this area?"

Jesse grinned at him broadly. "Started as a fraternity brothers' discussion on the merits of various mind-altering substances; I won't go into details as to why it started --"

Morgan laughed. "Got you. Go on."

"Well," the young doctor continued, "the next thing I knew, I was defending using them for medical purposes. Then, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made." His smile grew even more self-deprecating, if such was humanly possible.

Morgan smirked back at him, vanity duly stroked. "How about a tour, young man?"

"This is my observation lab," Morgan stated, waving a hand at the various monitor screens. A pretty brown-haired nurse stood frowning at one of them. As Jesse glanced at her, he could have sworn that her hand lifted very casually and sprayed something on the screen, but, when he blinked, she didn't seem to have moved at all. He filed that thought away and concentrated on Morgan's discourse. "We can monitor as closely as necessary; some of our patients are on very precise regimens." The doctor put a hand on the nurse's arm and drew her closer. "Let me introduce one of our invaluable nurses, Rachel Pauling. She's the patients' favorite, hands down. Rachel, this is Dr. Jesse Travis. He's looking into doing an internship with us."

Somehow, she managed to avoid dropping anything, and she hoped to God she hadn't revealed anything in her expression. She thought furiously while she shook the newcomer's hand and made polite noises. She had to find a way to get him alone and into Steve's room, especially now that she had been able to smear up the monitor enough to obscure the images somewhat. Now all she needed was a distraction.

Luck for once hadn't taken the day off. Her eye caught frenetic movement on another screen. "Doctor, Mr. Collins --"

Morgan glanced at the screen and swore. "Jesse, you're going to have to excuse me. Rachel, how about you give him the rest of the tour?" He started off. "Meet me back in my office when you're done, my boy, and we'll talk."

Jesse smiled broadly at the attractive nurse. This was great -- except now he was getting the distinct impression that she was extremely nervous about something. He made an incredible intuitive leap. "You're the woman who called, aren't you?"

She nodded and grabbed his arm. "Come on." She led him down the hall, and yet another one, before stopping at a door. She paused before opening it. "There's something you should know."

The blond doctor, who had seemed so young moments earlier, looked at her with kind eyes far older than his years. "It's all right, Ms. Pauling. It's been almost three months, after all."

Even so, he was not quite prepared for what he saw. Steve was sprawled on the bed, hobbled arms outflung, weariness and resignation evident in the lines of his body. He was shaking intermittently. He had lost weight; there were deep hollows above the scruffy beard, and his face was all sharp planes and angles. The prominent jaw was like a knife edge. Jesse thought he could see ribs under the grimy T-shirt. Shocked, he said the first thing that came into his head. "My God, don't they even get clean clothes?" He dropped to his knees and felt for his friend's wrist. Steve's pulse was threadier than he would have liked, his breathing uneven, but until he had a clear idea of what kind of junk had been pumped into his friend's system --

He must have muttered something along those lines, because Rachel said defensively, "He's been a bit -- difficult lately." As Jesse, forgetting momentarily that she was on Steve's side, turned, eyes blazing, she snapped, "You don't understand. Morgan's had him on a virtual drug seesaw; off the drugs, on them, back off again. It's all I can do to get him calm at all, much less do things like shave him when he insists, even though he can't stop shaking while I'm trying to do it. Clean shirts tend to become optional."

Mouth open to retort, Jesse felt Steve flinch uncontrollably at the sharp tone, and softened his own voice accordingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you were -- well, you know," he stammered, flustered. The expression on her face as she stared down at his best friend spoke volumes. He wrenched his gaze away from her stricken face and turned his attention to the man on the bed. "Steve? Steve, it's Jesse. Can you hear me?" He reached to check the supine man's eyes, when another tremor ran through the thin body, and Steve moved his head, coughed, and opened his eyes, to stare in befuddlement at the apparition leaning over him.

"Steve?"

A hoarse voice Jesse had feared he would never hear again croaked, "Oh, God. Bad enough I'm seeing people who aren't there -- now I'm hearing them too." He closed his eyes wearily.

Jesse tried again. "Steve, it's really me. Come on, buddy, wake up. We don't have much time." He put a hand on Steve's arm and shook it gently.

The bruised eyelids fluttered open tiredly, and clouded blue eyes blinked at the young doctor. "Jess?" The raspy voice cracked, and Jesse's throat ached in sympathy. "God help me. Jesse. I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

"No, Steve," Jesse answered, a little thickly. "Look, Mark sent me up to check Morgan out because we thought he might know something. We weren't sure you were here. But I'm going to bust you out of here now."

He started to rise, but Steve's hands pulled at him. "No, Jess." He struggled to sit up, an awkward process which was painful to watch. Jesse grabbed at him and helped him to lean back, shocked at how easy it was for him to manhandle his larger friend. Steve was panting as if he'd run a marathon and shaking uncontrollably. "Jesse, listen to me. Rachel's right. Morgan keeps flipflopping the drugs. I don't know how long I've got before this time gets really bad, and there's no way you could get me past the mountain and his pals."

Jesse frowned, alarmed by references to mountains with friends and what "really bad" meant, considering Steve's current condition. He got a grip on himself. "Steve --"

"No, Jess. I don't have the strength. Go home, get help, come back. I'm obviously not going anywhere." He sounded exhausted.

Jesse contemplated his friend, then glanced up at Rachel. "You'll take care of him?"

She nodded, biting her lip.

Still unhappy about the decision, Jesse pressed on. "Can you at least get those things off of him?" he asked, indicating Steve's restraints. Rachel started to answer, but Steve stopped her. "Leave it, Jess, please," he said tiredly. "I don't want to attract Morgan's attention if I don't have to." He reached for Jesse's arm; the young doctor gripped the gloved hands and said huskily, "Hang in there, buddy. We'll get you through this and out of here."

The man on the bed slowly let out his breath, willing taut muscles to relax. It didn't work. "I believe you, Jess. Just don't wait too long. Much as I adore Rachel's company, I want to go home." Despite his best efforts otherwise, his voice cracked again on the last few words, and Jesse found himself blinking suddenly moist eyes. "We won't, Steve. We'll be back for you. I swear."

The cramps were getting worse, and he didn't want Jesse to see. "Thanks, Jess." He closed his eyes, suddenly spent. "Tell Dad -- tell them all I love them."

Rachel tugged Jesse out, and they made quick arrangements for contacting each other. Then he returned to Morgan's office and thanked him for his time. "I'll run this by my adviser, and he'll be in touch," Jesse stated, thinking wryly that this dubious statement actually came pretty close to the truth, and, to use his vernacular, hauled major convertible butt down the road home.


	8. Frying Pan to Fire

He would have expected the knowledge that he hadn't been dropped in a hole and buried out of all worldly ken would have helped him handle the increasingly more frequent attacks of nausea and cramps, given him something positive on which to focus. One would have thought, he mused bitterly, that it would have made the pain easier to tolerate. His abused body insisted otherwise, as yet another violent fit shuddered through him. His response to each successive episode of methadone deprivation was getting worse.

He looked up hopefully as Rachel came in, then had to avert his gaze from the tray she carried. Food was definitely not in the picture. She noticed his discomfort and put the tray down as far out of sight as possible. "Steve?" she ventured softly.

"Mmm?"

She perched next to him, ostensibly checking his vitals. "What will happen when your friend returns?" she asked, still too quietly to be picked up by the monitoring system.

He grimaced. "Hopefully, no one will get hurt. I go home and try to put myself back together again. Go back to my life -- and my job -- try to build them back again --"

"With Miranda," she guessed.

His jaw muscles tightened, not only from the physical pain. "Randy. If she still wants me." His gaze dropped to his hands in their Siamese twin approximation. "I don't know that I would --" he broke off, gasping, as a particularly vicious wave of nausea swept through him.

Rachel wasn't sure what to say. Somehow, despite her firm resolve, her need to keep him at arms' length had evaporated. "She cares for you?" she asked, wondering why they had never discussed the subject, even after Wyler and Solario had finally lost interest in pursuing the matter of Steve's wife.

"I -- I don't know anymore. It's been so long --" Diverted, he gave her a startled look. "How long have I been here, anyway?"

She debated whether to tell him, and how to tell him. "Almost three months," she said finally.

There was a silence, potent and heavy. She waited, watching him spread and curl his fingers, as if by habit, not paying any attention to his hands. Finally, he spoke. "Three months." His voice was remote. The hands clenched and stayed that way, the cloth stretched tautly across the big knuckles. "Three months caged in here, Morgan's trained rat. Give me a needle and watch me run." The bitterness was overwhelming; Rachel's chest hurt in sympathy. He lifted his arms and stared at the material securing his wrists. "I tried every way I could think of to get rid of these, even trying to bite through them, did you know that, Rachel?" His mouth twisted as he turned back to look her in the eyes. "And do you know how often I finally fell asleep, if you can call it that, thinking of my wife -- and woke dreaming of you?"

Hand to her mouth, she stared at him, speechless. He didn't seem to notice her reaction. "I can even understand the logic behind these things," he continued, studying his hands. "Plenty of times I would have ripped my own guts out thanks to Morgan's nasty little obsession." He was mumbling now, the words harder and harder to understand. Rachel leaned closer, and let out a startled gasp as he grabbed her arms. "Rachel, promise me -- when they come -- you'll give me whatever's necessary to get me on my feet so I can take Morgan out myself." He fixed those burning eyes on her; she felt like a paralyzed rabbit. "I have to --"

A fresh torrent of pain slammed through him; the onslaught left him panting and swearing, totally distracted from his previous train of thought. The desire for the drug was merciless. He could taste it, feel it, touch it almost; his world was rapidly shrinking down into one crystal clear need. Sweating, he subsided onto the bed, shivering. Rachel reached over and brushed the hair from his forehead, wondering how she had gotten herself into this predicament. Her beeper went off but, before she could even check it, he had grabbed her arm again with a grip like a vise. "Rachel. Please -- don't go, stay with me."

The blue eyes didn't burn; they swallowed her alive. "I'll stay," she whispered.

A tiny beeping, like an electronic gnat, roused her. She realized with a small shock that she had drifted off for a while, sitting there on the bed, although her hand was still automatically stroking his hair. He slept like one dead, head in her lap, both gloved hands hanging grimly on to her other hand. A twist of her head gave her a view of the pager. Sighing, she dislodged Steve gently but firmly, rubbed her eyes, and slipped out to answer the call.

She faced a furious Morgan nervously, perspiration starting to trickle down her back. "What the hell were you doing?" he raged. "I've been paging you for over an hour!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she stammered. "I was so tired, I dropped off for a little while and didn't realize it."

He opened his mouth to shout at her, but paused, starting to pace in a small, tight circle. "You've been with me a long time, Rachel," he said suddenly, making her jump. She said nothing, afraid to speak. "You've always helped me unquestioningly, provided me unconditional, invaluable support," he continued, still pacing.

Oh, no. He was going to fire her, before she could see this through. How was she going to convince him to change his mind? She opened her mouth and closed it again as he held up a cautionary hand. "I realize that it's difficult sometimes to keep from caring too much about your patients," Morgan went on, "but you have to realize it's for your own safety."

Stung to speech finally by his condescension, she retorted, "They trust me -- more than they trust you. They can tell I have their welfare at heart!"

"Unlike me?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm sure the Board of Health would remember that if and when you ever found yourself the subject of an unethical practices review, wouldn't you agree?"

She stared at him, aghast. "You'd pull me down with you, wouldn't you?"

He snickered, then seized her arm and pulled her close to him, no humor in his eyes. "You've been with me too long, Rachel. You belong to me, not to some drug addict ex-cop who doesn't know enough to keep his nose out of other people's business." His grip tightened as she instinctively tried to pull away. "I'm reassigning you. You won't be taking care of Miller any more."

In her fury and her fear for Steve, she forgot all caution. "Miller?" she inquired, emphasizing the name heavily.

Morgan's face started to purple. "Just how much do you know?"

"I know his name's not Miller!" she snarled. She tried again to pull away, but his grip was too strong. "You bitch," he said quietly, menacingly, grabbing for her mouth as she opened it to scream for help. She bit him; the next moment, her vision went black as he swung a fist and connected, hard.

He stared down at her where she lay crumpled on the floor. She was still breathing, but it looked like he had broken her jaw. She could have ruined everything, he thought; suddenly furious, he started kicking.

Steve paid little attention to the door when it opened. After all, the options for any surprises were fairly limited. Nevertheless, he was startled when Morgan came in with only the mountain in tow. "Where's Rachel?" he asked blurrily, as the attendant unbuttoned his sleeve.

"She's dealing with a crisis," the doctor answered shortly. Steve digested that for a moment, wondering why he was feeling a small flicker of alarm. He persisted anyway. "She'll come later?" he asked hopefully.

Morgan slanted him a quick glance, then returned his attention to the syringe he was preparing. "Depends," he said, holding it up. The flash of metal caught Steve's attention; despite himself, his eyes fixed on it and refused to budge as he hungrily watched it approach, until he became aware of Morgan's avid gaze. He tore his eyes away with an effort and tried to project indifference, but he doubted he was particularly convincing. Morgan smirked and injected him with the solution; then, suddenly, coldly furious with the man who had suborned his best nurse, he added, "You won't be worrying about her for a while in any event."

Even though his perceptive abilities had been dulled significantly by Morgan's brutal concept of drug therapy, he instinctively knew that something was wrong, and danger lay ahead. He debated whether to respond, finally opting to keep his mouth shut, until Morgan stepped back and ordered, "Lie back on the bed."

The worrisome itch started to smolder into a three-alarm fire. "Why?" Steve asked, no longer sure silence was wise. He watched, fascinated, as a muscle started to jump in the doctor's jaw, until a sudden unexpected movement from the mountain slammed him onto his back. Shocked and winded, with the added disadvantage of the huge hand pressing him down, he was totally unprepared to discover that the padding in the bed contained similarly padded restraints, at chest, elbows, knees and ankles. "What the hell is this?" he growled, as the nausea from the drug mixture started to hit.

Morgan loomed over him. "It's for your own protection, Miller."

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "That's what you said about these things," he objected, trying to wave his hands.

Morgan's expression was not pleasant. "If my theory is correct, you're not going to want to be too mobile." He leaned down to ensure that Steve could hear him. "And you won't be seeing Rachel any more."

This was too much. Steve lunged uselessly against the padding. "What the hell did you do to her, you bastard?" Morgan's startled reaction was not encouraging. "Where is she?" Steve snarled, not giving up on his attempts to free himself. He winced as the mountain placed a hand on his chest and pushed.

Morgan had had enough. "She's been reassigned. Flores here --" (Flores? Steve thought crazily, what an incredibly inappropriate name for the gargantuan goon) "will be taking care of you, assuming you survive today's regimen." He turned on his heel and stalked out. Flores the mountain tendered a toothy grin and followed.

After several more fruitless attempts to break loose, Steve finally conceded defeat. The restraints were unbreakable. He was also starting to feel extremely disoriented, and the violent movements weren't helping any. Neither was the stone in his chest when he thought of Rachel. He had had no right to involve her; he should have been able to cope with his own ambiguous feelings for her without putting her in harm's way. The last thought he remembered, before he slid through a spiraling chasm of confusion into a nightmare world, was that it was all his fault.

He surfaced finally, shaking with pain and rage. His throat was raw, he assumed from screaming; the memory of the earlier hallucinations alone was enough to make him violently ill. Somehow, he had made it through them, even though he recognized absently that he had locked the man who had survived the recent technicolor horror away in a small place in his mind. Slowly taking in the dreadfully familiar white walls, he realized that his loathing for Morgan had deepened into a icy, violent hatred. The doctor had better hope he had plenty of protection if Steve was ever able to get free. Temporarily forgetting his inability to tear loose earlier, he strained once more, until the tightening bands reminded him. Coldly, analytically, his mind frighteningly clear, he began to consider his options.

Returning to the observation lab after a short break, Morgan glanced at the monitor showing his star patient and stroked his beard thoughtfully. Something wasn't right. The monitor showed Steve lying quietly, eyes closed, but something about the quality of his stillness betrayed the tautness of his body, an almost fierce concentration on rest, and which made the hairs rise on the back of the doctor's neck. Curiously, Morgan checked the readouts from the monitoring system in the restraints themselves (a notion he had had when designing them), and his trepidation increased. The chart showed a great deal of disturbance earlier, which apparently coincided with the duration of Steve's latest drug experience, but the subsequent readings disturbed him. Steve wasn't sleeping; his vitals were far too quiet for the type of turmoil which Morgan would have expected to show on the monitors. He drummed his fingers on the table, contemplating the main screen pensively.

His ruminations were interrupted by a voice from the intercom. "Dr. Morgan? I have the oscillator calibrated." Morgan cheered up. This should be interesting. "Thanks, Jonathan. Make sure the room is set up; we'll be using it soon." He returned to his scrutiny of Steve's readings, debating what kind of mixture he wanted to utilize next. Rachel's defection had made him nervous. It might be time to accelerate the study, if for no other reason than to ensure that Lieutenant Sloan deteriorated to the point where he would no longer be a viable threat. He punched the intercom and spoke briefly, then addressed his attention to the matter of the drug solution.

Steve watched dispassionately as the door opened. Maybe now, maybe later, as far as he was concerned, Morgan's control of the situation was coming to an end. He had not reached this epiphany easily; it had been necessary for him to confront and subdue a demon he hadn't known he possessed. The old Steve might never have had an opportunity to make its acquaintance. The new Steve, having been forced to acknowledge its existence, had resolved not only to learn from it but ultimately master it. A trace of the initial struggle and its result must have shown in his eyes, because Morgan felt the proverbial goose walk over his grave as he entered the room. He shook it off as excess paranoia. What did he seriously expect Sloan to do under the circumstances?

The voice from the bed was cold. "I'm not done with the last dose yet, thank you. Go away."

The doctor stared at his impertinent patient in amazement. Sloan should still have been semi-coherent at best. The goose wandered back the way it had come. He determined to ignore it, and signaled to Flores. "Get him out of there, secure him, and bring him to Lab 3." He turned towards the man on the bed. "I hadn't planned on your being quite this lucid for this experiment, but it may actually enhance your experience. Try not to annoy Flores so much that he has to cause you any undue discomfort."

Steve sneered at him and gave the mountain a bright, insincere smile. "Flores, old buddy, old pal. Where are we going?"

Morgan needn't have worried. Steve was not concerned with anyone or anything except Morgan's hide, and, to get to it, he was quite willing to cooperate with the big attendant. He didn't resist as Flores released him, even when the muffles came off, to be replaced by leather cuffs connected by a length of chain, and secured his ankles in a similar fashion. Nor did he object when Flores nudged him towards the door, partially holding him upright and guiding his wobbly steps. He hoped the mountain was disappointed.

Lab 3 was a stark, sparsely furnished room divided by a double-thick plexiglas partition stretching across most of the room. One side housed an utilitarian chair with arms. The other contained a couple of folding chairs, a desk, and what looked like a projector sitting on a table. Flores pushed him through the more densely populated section towards the other side.

Despite the big man's prodding, Steve stopped at the partition, reluctant to go any farther. Something about the room and the chair, innocuous though they seemed, made his skin crawl. Flores took his refusal to move personally, shoved him inside the room and into the chair hard, waking memories of earlier painful encounters with the big man's fists, and secured the shackles to it. Closing his eyes, Steve concentrated on the ice demon. Morgan wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. There was plenty of time.

There were moments during the subsequent interval when he found himself grimly hanging onto that thought. From Morgan's expression while he administered the injection, and the way it burned as it took effect, he surmised he had received a hefty amount of PCP, apparently more than usual. Why they were performing their experiment here rather than in his little white home away from home was less clear. At least, it was until the lights in the room started getting weird, and images started traveling across the walls at varying speeds and irregular intervals. For not the first time during his captivity, Steve briefly regretted not having indulged in the usual mind-altering substances available during his misspent youth; otherwise he might have had some frame of reference as to what to expect.

When he finally came to himself, the room was dark. He moved uncontrollably, and discovered red heat where his wrists had rubbed raw patches from the straps. He smiled slightly, wryly, oddly grateful for the pain; without it, he had come dangerously close to wandering away from reality altogether. As it was, it took him several minutes to recreate the sense of self hovering on the brink of shattering, to reforge in it that same icy chill he had embraced earlier for survival. It was ironic, he thought; his encounter with enlightenment had actually brought him a certain degree of it. He knew as definitely as he could feel the pain in his wrists that he was going to get out of there, and he was taking Morgan with him.

Unaware of his patient's plan for his future, Dr. Morgan was nevertheless startled by the clarity in Steve's eyes as he examined him. Obviously, he was going to have to increase the methadone. "Get him out of here," he ordered, displeased by the results of the experiment.

There was no point in fighting the mountain, although Steve winced as the straps briefly pulled tightly against his wrists while Flores released him from the chair. He stood still momentarily, getting his bearings. Flores was standing behind him, and Morgan had started out of the room. Steve took a surreptitious step, and then another, away from the big man and called out to the doctor. "Hey, doc!"

Morgan turned reluctantly as Steve edged towards him as much as he dared without arousing suspicion. "What do you want?" he asked disagreeably.

"I just want to know," Steve started to say, then deliberately let his eyes slide toward the doctor's left side, as if someone was there, as he pretended to cough. Unbelievably, the doctor fell for it, and Steve, summoning up reserves which he wasn't totally sure were there, fell on him. Before either Morgan or Flores could react, Steve had the doctor literally by the throat. "You should have had him replace those muffle things," he panted triumphantly. "I couldn't have done any damage with them." He yanked on the chain slightly, and Morgan gurgled in protest, clawing at it uselessly. "But this -- it doesn't matter how much strength I do or don't have -- I don't really need much, do I?" He yanked again to prove his point, ignoring the doctor's reaction.

There was a brief, pregnant silence, while Steve considered his options and the others waited to hear them. Finally, he said, "All right. This is what's going to happen, Morgan. You and I are going to move this way, very, very, very carefully towards the door, and no one is going to get in the way. When we get outside, we're going to go to your car, very carefully, same rule applying to anyone we find out there. Then you're going to give me the key for these things."

"Let me guess," Morgan sneered. "Put them on myself, and let you drive us to the nearest police station?"

Irritated, Steve retorted, "Something like that."

"And if I don't, you practice choking me, is that it?"

Steve was rapidly tiring of Morgan's tone. "Funny, I don't see any inherent flaw."

Morgan waved his hand. "Actually, there are two. One is the fact that there is more PCP in your system than you realize, and you're not thinking very clearly."

Steve laughed derisively. "You've been shooting me full of the stuff for the last three months -- why should a little more be a problem?"

Morgan was silent a moment. "Then there's number two."

"Enlighten me," Steve said with heavy sarcasm.

"What you don't know, obviously," replied the doctor, "is that we have a contingency plan for this sort of thing. While you were expounding on your plan, our own immediately went into effect. There are armed guards on the other side of that door, and behind those skylights, ready to take you out as soon as the opportunity arises. I'm sure you're familiar with the methodology." He tried to swallow, but Steve's grip was too tight. "If you're lucky, it'll only be a tranquilizer dart; only half of the guards use bullets, and they try to avoid firing if possible. But I can't promise anything."

The last part of his speech was a little ragged, as Steve instinctively sought the security of a wall against his back, hauling Morgan with him. "All right, then," he growled, "we'll wait. See how long it takes for my arms to get tired." He wasn't sure what he was going to do next, but this would at least buy him some time to think.


	9. Showdown

Captain Newman glanced up, then groaned inwardly as he received a visitation from Mark and Jesse. Cheryl came in behind them, excitement gleaming in her eyes. "Doctors. What can I do for you today?"

Mark got right to the point. "We've located Steve. He's being held at the Morgan Clinic outside Fresno."

Newman reached for the phone. "I'll alert the local authorities, and we'll have him out of there fast. Is Morgan tied to Wyler?"

"Yes," Mark said, "and we need to be careful. There are legitimate patients and medical personnel there, a nurse Pauling in particular." He was clearly itching to get on the road.

"All right," the captain replied. He pressed buttons and spoke briefly with a junior officer, then soon had a conference call involving his FBI counterpart on the Wyler investigation as well as the Fresno County sheriff on the line. Within minutes, the rescue force was on its way.

En route, Newman received a call from the sheriff. "Thanks, George. Guess we'll find out more when we get there." He elaborated for the benefit of the others. "There's something going down at the clinic. The sheriff said it sounded like a hostage situation, but he hadn't gotten there yet and didn't know much. Just that the place was in lockdown, and he'd make sure we were allowed inside."

Mark and Jesse exchanged worried looks. Hopefully, the lockdown had nothing to do with Steve, and they would be able to liberate him without any additional difficulty. Somehow, though, they both knew they were engaging in substantial wishful thinking.

And, smack dab in the middle of the trouble, Steve was getting tired, sore, hungry, and extremely irritable. His wrists and shoulders burned, wrists from the shackles and shoulders from the strain of keeping Morgan on a choke hold. He had found a position which put less strain on the higher arm, although he would still have vastly preferred to be somewhere else altogether. He tugged on the chain briefly, eliciting a satisfying squawk from Morgan; he was damned if the doctor was going to be less uncomfortable than he was.

The deputy with the bull horn who had been annoying him for the past fifteen minutes or so read his evidently prepared text into it again. "Release the hostage and give yourself up before anyone gets hurt," he droned sonorously and repetitively.

What a moron, Steve thought in irritation. I hope I don't sound that brainless when I'm handling this type of situation. He resolved to be a little more sympathetic to the nuances of language, and possibly even the perp, during his next hostage crisis. In the meantime, he wished fervently that someone would confiscate the bull horn, which was essentially superfluous anyway. The deputy was in the next room, and the walls were paper thin. Steve would have heard him even if he had whispered. He raised his own voice anyway. "The only way I'll come out is with this scumbag coming with me, and the only person to whom I'll surrender is Jim Newman, LAPD. Get him here, and maybe we'll talk."

Following the sheriff to the incident scene, an already perplexed Captain Newman heard his name being yelled out by a voice he hadn't heard since he'd told its owner in no uncertain terms to stay home until his knee mended. "Sloan, what in the name of all that's holy is going on?" he bellowed.

Chaos ensued. Stunned, Steve relaxed his grip for a second, enough for Morgan to yell something inarticulate at Flores. From the corner of his eye, Steve saw the mountain start to approach, and instinctively flinched away, yanking on the chain. Just as instinctively, Morgan leaned back with the chain instead of forward against it, and drove both elbows as suddenly and viciously as possible into Steve's ribs. The resulting distance between them as Steve winced back was enough. Just as Newman and company burst through the door, they heard the sound of automatic rifle shots, and Steve went down, pulling the doctor with him. Flores was there immediately, freeing the doctor, who, when the big man would have turned on Steve and pounded him to a pulp, grabbed him and whispered something in his ear. Flores nodded; moving unbelievably quickly for such a big man, he disappeared from the room, his exit unnoticed as the new arrivals began to take charge.

Jesse managed to arrive first where Steve lay half-conscious, blood puddling beneath him onto the floor. His right arm was a mess, but he smiled at Jesse serenely. "Hey, Jess. Couldn't miss out on the fun, huh?"

Jesse made himself return the smile. "You know it, big guy. Now try to relax while I do something about this bleeding." A shadow fell over Steve's body, and the injured man glanced up, eyes beginning to tighten with pain. "Dad?" he said in disbelief, his voice betraying him.

Mark dropped to his knees next to his stricken son. "Steve -- son --" His throat failed outright, and he reached for the good hand, thinking the boy needed a hospital, and fast.

Steve Sloan clutched his father's hand. It was obviously real. "Dad," he repeated, and gave him a singularly sweet smile. "Can I go home now?"

Mark found his voice somehow. "Yes, son, it's all over." He watched his son smile slowly again and lapse into unconsciousness with a sigh like a sick child. "You're going home."


End file.
